


Self Sabotage

by GhostHost



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Medical issues, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Poor Health, Rape Aftermath, Rung has ethical issues, Rungs got crazy intuition powers, Whirls good at it, Whirls not so happy about said issues, and recovery, doesnt work on Rung though, medical sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostHost/pseuds/GhostHost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rung knows Whirl is capable of a lot of things, but not what Cyclonus thinks he's capable of-or even what Whirl himself implies. After a fight that lands the latter two in the brig, Rung's intuition forces him to take a hard look at his most difficult patient's behavior. </p><p>But figuring it out is only half the battle. Dealing with it is another entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. I was writing something completely different, and then one of the scenes I wrote in that fic didn’t quite fit so I pulled it out and ended up with this. 
> 
> This does slow build into Rung/Whirl (of the relationship variety) and oooh boy there is nothing I love more than tackling alien ethical issues, especially when they’ve been involved in a war for millions of years. Do medical ethics boards still exist? How sacred are medical oaths really, after all this time? How is it with everyone spread out like they are? Have the standards been forced to change-do all of the mechs accept those changes?! What if I put in this scenario and that scenario!? Like yeah, baby, gimme allll the ethical issues! 
> 
> Warnings will be provided per chapter, for whats in that specific chapter! Read 'em and stay safe, peeps! (AND! If there is ever something I did not mention that should be given a warning, please tell me so I can add it!)

  Self Sabotage

or

Lies I’ve Told to Make Myself Feel Better.

 

Warnings for this chapter: mentions of rape, Whirl provoking an attack, Whirl being well, Whirl. Chapter one's pretty tame.

This fic totally does not stay that way.

Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

Rung stares up at his ceiling, mind returning again to the scene at the bar.

He kept replaying the events over and over, finally narrowing down the specific point where his intuition had gone off. He knew better than to ignore it but everything had happened so quickly he hadn’t had the time to reflect and react. He still didn’t know what he was reacting too, not really. Something with Whirl.

Something wrong with Whirl.

He replays the audio he recorded, lets himself drift to help himself visualize.

_“What would you know about consent?” Cyclonus snarled,  optics dark narrow slits._

_“About every way to break it.” Whirl had fired back, tone smug- except something’s not quite right. It takes Rung a moment to realize its because he was still at the edge of Whirl’s field, close enough to feel the dark current roll through it. He recognized that emotion in his patient, the specific tinge in his field. That was a special brand of self-hatred and shame._

He could feel it, right there, the tiny pull on his spark. This had been the moment that had set him off.

The context of it was Cyclonus, Swerve, Chromedome and Tailgate. The topic was Whirl’s habit of shouting crudely at mechs. He’d gone off on Tailgate right as Cyclonus had walked in. The result was a tense conversation about one's honor and worth, ending when Whirl told and implied that he had broken many a mech’s consent before-and heavily enjoyed it. That had started the physical fight that had landed Whirl and Cyclonus in Ratchet’s care, and then finally the brig.

Rung’s first instinct was to say no, that Whirl was incapable of that kind of abuse. But then, his second instinct was to remind himself that with Whirl one never really knew. Whirl was unpredictable, impulsive and shucked responsibilities more than Rodimus did. Rung could not, in good conscious, say that Whirl couldn’t pull off that kind of crime. Given Whirl’s history of sudden violent outbursts, crude comments and general personality-well it's a perfect cocktail for a mech who could blow right through one's consent. Consent could be revoked in a number of ways, not all of them the “kidnap and force” variety that Cyclonus seemed to interpret that statement as. Rung could easily see Whirl refusing a partner who asked him to stop. Could easily see Whirl not thinking of it as a big deal.

Except that felt wrong. Rung frowned, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to puzzle out the little tugs on his spark.

He replayed the audio again.

He focused this time on the dark current in Whirl’s field. Whirl’s emotions were often all over the place, and his self-hatred manifested in multiple ways. Rung tried to remember the feel of this one, tried to remember what it was associated with.  

_“What do you know about consent?”_

_“About every way to break it.”_

Alright, yes, Rung has to admit that Whirl is extremely crude. His tone is crude, even. The mech knows no bounds especially when it comes to voicing his thoughts.  Has no filters. He just blurts thoughts out, without forethought or care.

_“Hey sexy, Iemme show you how to see some real stars!”_

_“Bring that curvy aft over here! Let ol’ Whirl spank it!”_

_“I’ll give you a reason to moan you little-”_

And on and on. They only got more vulgar, and even when it wasn’t directed at specific mechs Whirl took a special pleasure in describing berth activities in colorful detail to anyone willing to listen. He could make Wreckers blush-which really wasn’t too impressive if you remembered he’d been one. But it didn’t add up.

It took Rung a minute to realize that was because Whirl never acted on it.

Sure, the mech popped personal bubbles like it was his Primus given mission. He drapped those claws of his over everybot’s shoulders at least once-but he yanked them back if they weren’t wanted, and he never touched anyone anywhere else. The crudeness was annoying, but if anything Whirl went out of his way to avoid casually brushing against people. He touched you on his terms. That was something common with Empurata victims, something Rung hadn’t really looked at beyond the surface  and now he’s regretting it because thinking on it, Whirl had gone beyond a normal Empurata reaction. With “normal” Empurata victims, touch was something they had to reclaim. They felt odd in their new bodies, often ashamed, and the stigmas against them were often so ingrained that by the time someone wanted to touch them casually, they would flinch rather than welcome it. Extreme violence wasn’t a typical response. At least, not as an immediate reaction anyway. Particularly since Empurata victims often didn’t recognize touches or even pain, due to their disconnect with their own bodies.

Rung could think of at least two fights at Swerves that had been started because someone had touched Whirl.

Even that could be explained though, Rung reasoned. Whirl had spent a long, long time on Garrus-9 and then did a stint as a Wrecker. His violent reaction could easily be explained by

Rung’s spark tugged a little harder. Intuition, his ability to follow little threads in files and decipher small physical cues that lead him to big breakthroughs in mechs came to life again, pulling on him. Telling him.

 _‘Alright then.’_  He thought. _‘Garrus-9. The Wreckers. A violent life.’_ Rung rewound the audio again.

_“What do you know about consent?”_

Rung had Whirl’s files, all of them, the impressive collection that they were. His files while on Garrus-9 were mostly brief and centered around attempted uprisings or various fights. It did discuss the amount of prison mates kept with Whirl (a multitude) and the amount of times he had had to visit the infirmary (quite a bit more than a multitude) and not much else because the war had been starting, the political atmosphere had imploded and prisons were one of those things you just forgot about when the planet was splitting in two.

Garrus-9 had been home to a lot of Decepticons, eager to get their hands on Whirl. In prisons, it was customary to remove all weapons and weapons systems, and anything that could exacerbate a problem. Whirl’s claws had been blunted, dulled so they could barely dent metal. His rotary blades would have been bound or removed entirely. Whirl’s file further specified they had taken steps after his incarnation to halt his fighting. By the end of his first year, Whirl would have been entirely defenseless.

_“About every way to break it.”_

There were plenty of ways to hurt a mech without any weapons.

Rung’s  intuition is screaming and suddenly, it all clicks.

_He recognized that emotion in his patient, the specific tinge in his field. That was a special brand of self-hatred and shame-_

A specific brand of self-hatred and shame that came when Whirl had gotten hurt, had been unable to defend himself or others. It appeared most when he was overpowered or forced down by stronger mechs, on nights when Ultra Magnus had had enough and manhandled the copter into the brig, with Whirl being unable to escape his grasp. Applying that brand of self-hatred and shame to the fight that had erupted today-

 _“What would you know about consent?”_  - and the topic had definitely been about sexual consent specifically. He would know, he had been there, had seen the context of the argument. Which would mean-

Rung doesn’t swear. Hasn’t sworn much, since he was released from the Functionalists. Hasn’t had a reason too. This, this was most certainly a reason too. He can’t bring himself to curse aloud but he chants the words mentally,  immediately shooting Ultra Magnus his medical override and emergency codes. He’s on his way to the brig before he fully realizes he’s even left his hab suite.

Rung pauses briefly, when he realizes he doesn’t entirely know what he’s doing. He’s looking at Whirl in a new context, in a new light yes and he’s had to completely re-examine Whirl’s interactions and behaviors completely-but should he pull Whirl out of the brig? At this late of an hour? Wouldn’t this be best left to a normal therapy session? Whirl had not told him this information specifically and yes, if Rung confirmed it it meant he’d have to completely overhaul all of Whirl’s treatments, but...well. This is why therapists were not supposed to hang out with their patients casually. A personal connection made you overreact. Yes, maybe he should send an apology to Ultra Magnus, just state he thought some things out and reacted without thinking-

An angry pull on his spark.

And then Rung doesn’t need a reason, because that was his intuition speaking and he trusts it to know what’s best. It wants him to get Whirl.  
So he does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lookit an update! As always, I'm going without a beta or editor so please feel free to point out any mistakes. I also apologize for the formatting changes, AO3 is still giving me hell when I try to post a chapter and I have to re-do everything within AO3. (Anybody who uses Google Docs know how to fix this shit? 'Cause damn am I tired of it eating my formatting. Nothing I've tried works and Google Docs doesn't let me use the work-around others have come up with.) Anyway, enjoy!

                 

 

* * *

 

         Warnings for this chapter include: flashbacks, rape, self harm, and the knowledge that I have a better understanding of where this fic is going so it's going to get semi-regularish updates now that I’m writing consecutively and not just random scenes. Most of it's dark as fuck. I can guarantee a happy ending though, ‘cause the more I write Rung in this the more he becomes a total badass and he is not settling for anything less than happy!

 

* * *

 

  
By Rung’s estimation, Whirl had been in the brig for roughly eight joors. That’s plenty of time for the rotary to do damage. What kind of damage Rung isn’t sure of, but he knows there’s going to be something.

There always is, when it comes to Whirl.

It takes him precisely fifteen minutes to reach the brig from his office. In that time, Magnus had pinged him twice, once for the brig override codes and a second time requesting a status update. Rung briefly thanked Primus for the larger mech’s instance upon following rules. Doing so means Rung doesn’t have to try to explain.

He won’t lie, it’s not the first time he’s used his position as a therapist to hide doing something he’s not entirely certain of. His intuition, as he called the little tugs, had led him into more than one complicated situation.

He pings back his thanks as he approaches the brig doors, then sends a short message indicating his wish for privacy. Magnus may not barge in, but he may ask if Rung needs back up or help, and he can’t have that yet. He needs Whirl’s full attention on him, and he knows he won’t get it with others there.  
  
Something in his head tells him he also might need some time to settle Whirl down. His spark agrees, or rather the odd intuition he’s guided by. It’s enough for him.

Taking a deep vent, Rung pauses a moment to stabilize his EM field. When it’s clear, he walks through the doors.

xXx

_Their hands are all over him. He's fighting, but they've strapped him down, taped his pincers shut._

_His vocalizer was muted long ago, and all he can do is thrash. Make it harder for the prison medic to subdue him._

_Not that the mech doesn't succeed, firewalls crashing and body going still as he finally managed to access one of Whirl’s medical ports. The rotary had purposefully destroyed all but two, the two most difficult to reach._  
  
_“Fragging glitch.” The medic snarls as he ruthlessly tears through Whirl’s programming._

_From there his repairs come, without any kind of anesthetic or number. That, Whirl’s used to. You don't get that here, just as you don't get the right to voice where you hurt the most or who it was that scrapped you. No one cares._

_You were a thing here. And a mech like Whirl?_

_He was even less._

_But it wasn't his repairs that worried him. It wasn't how long it had taken for the prison guards to deem him worthy of visiting the medic, or how long he had lain in a cold pool of his own energon. This kind of torture he could handle. He was used to it._

_It was the things he wasn’t that did him in._

“Whirl?”

_He knows it’s coming, and fights against the intruding presence in his mind, but the medic had been there for a while, had enough purchase to make a takeover effortless._

_“Back talk, picking fights, caught with contraband, instigating? You know what most of this sounds like?”_

_Whirl’s head couldn't move, could only face upwards. The medical codes were the kind one used for surgery, to keep a mech still after they went under. They weren't intended to be used on a patient who was awake- but nothing here went as it should. His entire fragging life hadn't gone like it should._

_“It sounds like misaligned coding, Whirl. The kind you get when you don't take care of regular charges like a good bot. All that backed up charge can really interfere with your judgement center.”_

_A servo tapped his optic._

_“Lucky for you, I'm your medic. And I know just what you need.”_

_Whirl didn't need to see the bastard to see the smirk that accompanied the words._

“Whirl? Can you hear me?”

 _A few lines of harsh coding was all it took. Whirl felt the medic access his interface panels. This was his last chance to boot him out, to make it_ stop. _Whirl surged, intending to fight for control and was shunted aside by medical coding strong enough to leave him reeling._

_His panel slide open._

_“There's a good mech.” The voice was taunting, cruel._

_Whirl expected nothing less._

_Clicks and shudders, the sounds of a machine starting up, and Whirl can feel panic blooming. He fought it down, trying to focus on getting the medic out. He had told himself he would never do this again, panic like this, not after what the Functionalists did to him. He’d lied. His stupidly strong reaction, the shudders that he can feel even though he can’t physically make them, have him feeling more weak than he’s ever been. For a brief second Whirl was glad for the stasis. It hid everything. Robbed the fraggers of his own reactions._

_That’s what they were looking for, after all._

_They could claim this was for medical reasons all they wanted, but Whirl knew the truth. They wanted to break him. Funny how their own torture devices hid the damage they so desperately wanted to see. He’d never let them see it either. Just as he’d never let them break him. Sick glitches could do all they wanted-and they would, he knew now-but he wouldn’t go down like their other victims. He wouldn’t be one of the prisoners they tamed._

“Whirl, it’s Rung.”

_“Don't worry your ugly mug. I'll spit on it before we put it in this time.”_

_The smile, awful and smug, flits into Whirls vision, right before something large and cold and slick is shoved inside his valve. It’s unwanted, and Whirl’s lack of arousal makes it burn. He knows that will go away soon, that it will stop tearing when he starts enjoying it._

_And he will enjoy it. His traitorous body will build charge and overload, just as it’ll purge everything in his tanks the second he’s awake and alone._

_A button is pressed. As the toy pumps away, Whirl commits the medics face to memory. One day, he'll get out-and it won't matter what's going on out there, what he ends up doing. He'll have his list. A list of people to kill, the second he's able._

_The fragger is going right to the top._

“Ratchet, it’s Rung. Whirl’s hurt badly- I need you to met me in the brig.”

_Wait-that damn medic had never said his name. Never that often, anyway. Not like that. Whirl suddenly finds his head released-no longer frozen in stasis. He’s still in that fragging room but the restraints are gone. He turns slowly, carefully. If they messed up he doesn’t want them to know-he wants the edge of surprise._

_Except the medic isn’t there. Whirl blinks, slowly rising as he scans the room. There is a bot in here but he recognizes him, knows him to be safe, and continues his sweep of the room. He does it twice before he remembers that no one here is safe-no one here is classified as a_ friend.

_The room fades, blurs at the edges of his vision and melts into an entirely new one as Whirl stares. The effect is jarring, but triggering- he’s experienced it before and he knows what it means. Just as he suddenly knows where he is, how much time has passed._

_That he isn’t there and there’s been destroyed._

“Do you know who I am?” Rung asks, a few feet away. Closer than most people would get, but far enough to move if Whirl reacts badly.

Smart mech.

“Yeah.” Whirl says. His voice is flat, emotionless. He doesn’t know why Rung was here, only that he wasn’t supposed to be, and if he’s asking questions like that than Whirl really fragged up.

He’s not looking forward to finding out just how long Rung’s been standing there.

  
xXx

  
There's energon smeared on the walls.  
  
It only takes a quick glance to recognize the patterns-they’re from Whirl’s claws. Of course, the amount of energon on Whirl’s pincers is also something of a clue.

Rung makes sure to step heavier as he approaches the bars, trying to make a decent amount of noise. He calls Whirl’s name softly and it worries him when the normally hyper-observant ‘copter doesn’t move.

“Whirl, can you hear me?” Rung tries again. Nothing. Whirl is staring into space, looking right past Rung. His claws are idly playing with his plating.

He’s not acknowledging the therapist at all.

Rung stops in front of the bars, reaching out with his field. He’s hoping Whirl is just lost in thought or playing some kind of game, but as time goes by it becomes apparent the ‘copter isn’t going to react to him. He’s not sitting at the bench the brig has, but rather crammed against a corner.

Some might call this behavior ‘difficult.’ Rung knows better. The positioning-sitting on the floor, in the corner- is for protection. It puts two walls to Whirl’s back. Most jailed mechs wouldn’t pin themselves in the corner and certainly not fliers, which makes it an unpredictable place for Whirl to be. The brig’s dim lighting means it’s difficult to see and it’s only Rung’s enhanced glasses that allow him to observe that Whirl is not so much sitting as he is partly crouched. He’s lowered himself into a position that will let him take intruders by surprise.

It’s all about defense.

“Whirl, it’s Rung.” He says, this time loudly. He brushes his field against Whirl’s a few times.  
  
The continued lack of reaction is worrying. He knew some mechs would assume it to be a ruse, just as some mechs would never get into a jail cell with Whirl willingly no matter what. They would assume he was faking it. That he would attack them and make a run for it, particularly considering how he was positioned.

Rung knows all this.

He also knows Whirl is displaying a textbook reaction for a PTSD flashback. He’s seen more of them than almost anything, he can identify it almost entirely by how an EM field reacts. It means he’ll have to be careful, have to handle Whirl with an extreme amount of care.

Fort Max had been a painful reminder about what a good mech could do when something like this gripped the processor.

Moving so that he’s directly in Whirl’s line of sight, Rung triggers the override. The bars disappear and he enters, slowly. Carefully.

The tugging on his spark picks up, seemingly insistant. He doesn’t react to it, but he knows he’s on the right track. Know he’s supposed to be here.

He approaches slowly, so focused on his own body posture and soothing field that it takes him a click to realize that Whirl isn’t idly picking at his armor-but _actively ripping it up._

Specifically, Rung notes, his medical ports. Three have been torn apart, leaving deep, seeping gashes in the rotaries arms. The two on the left are gone, one on the right and Whirl is determinedly working on the fourth. Metal screeches as Rung watches, Whirl’s claws stripping a layer of the port off. It’s enough to damage it, but he’s clearly going for something beyond that because he keeps going, as though he’s trying to remove it completely.

The only thing stopping Rung from running over and trying to stop him, trying to fix this, is millions of years serving the public as a therapist. No one knows better than him how badly that would go. No, he had to do this slowly. Limiting the damage meant doing this right and doing it right meant he had to stay where he was. No matter how much he wanted too, rushing could put Whirl on the defensive. Rung hasn’t known him long enough, doesn’t know enough about him, to remotely figure out which horror Whirl is lost in only that he has many, and Whirl was a shoot first question later kind of mech when he was fully functioning. No one could predict how any mech would react when under this kind of stress.

Instead, Rung sends out his field, matching EM frequencies with Whirl. It’s a rare ability, to match frequencies, mostly because of the sheer amount of time it takes to learn. It wasn’t a special ability-any could learn it, but it required a lot of finesse. The ability to know what frequencies caused certain emotions was difficult to teach, hard to show, and harder to know.

Rung hadn’t even picked it up because of his job. He’d picked it up purely for self defense.

It served him well though. His field merged with Whirl’s, mimicking the turning emotions held within. Slowly, he soothed them out, countering the more agitated strands that flew by with calm ones of his own. Lowering the frequencies from volatile emotions to calmer ones. When done correctly, a mech wouldn’t even notice the subtle manipulation. They would assume they’d calmed down on their own.

Rung preferred it. As manipulations went, it was based almost entirely on the mech who the technique was being used on. The target came to their own conclusions, used their own emotions, memories or methods to calm themselves down. He was simply tapping them in that direction, redirecting the energy already there. Because it was difficult to detect, the subtle hints meant it rarely turned the mech on Rung.

It was one of his great secrets on how he had survived such a long war as a non-combatant.

Whirl’s body language slowly changed, as his field calmed. Rung could feel him come out of the flashback, watched as his body reacted more to his surroundings. When he was positive Whirl was grounded, he opened a comm. to Ratchet.

“Ratchet, it’s Rung. Whirl’s hurt badly- I need you to met me in the brig.”

He spoke his message aloud for several reasons, the first being so Whirl would know Ratchet was coming. The second so that it brought attention to Rung and the fact that he was there. While syncing frequencies did typically leave his patients viewing him in a calmer and more relaxed state, that didn’t mean he didn’t have the odd one who attacked him anyway or who panicked when realizing he was there. If either of those happened with Whirl he needed to get out of the way-and he very likely would need a medic himself.

Whirl was the number one priority, but as the humans on Swerve’s TV said, this wasn’t his first rodeo.

Thankfully the ‘Copter doesn’t attack. Rung watches Whirl carefully, still projecting a calm, soothing field and making his body language as non-threatening as possible. Whirl’s focused on him, has been since he last spoke, but Rung wait’s for a few clicks before he speaks again.

“Do you know who I am?” He asks, finally.

“Yeah.” Whirl responds, his body not necessarily relaxing but slumping into something a little more Whirl-like. He stays on the floor, and sitting down like he is almost levels him to Rung’s own height.

It should be imposing. Instead, he just looks defeated.

“Ratchet is on his way.” Rung stays where he is. Coming out of bad memory purge can be a tricky thing-its easy for some to slip right back in. Rung does his best to keep Whirl grounded.

Even if his optics are glued to the mess leaking out from Whirl’s arms.

Whirl scoffs. It’s an attempt at normalcy and a very good sign, even if it sounds nothing like Whirl’s normal scoffs. “What for?” He asks.

“Your arms.”

As predicted, Whirl looks down at them. He has no reaction beyond that, simply taking in the damage. He doesn’t panic or jump to his feet-but he also doesn’t attempt to cover the wounds or stop the leakage.

“Huh.” Is what Rung gets instead, after both arms are turned over.

“May I approach? I’m concerned with how quickly you’re bleeding.”

Whirl shrugs. Rung remains where he is. This is something he’s worked on with Whirl for a while, specific verbal consent. Seeing if Whirl remembers that gives Rung a good idea of where Whirl is at mentally.

Whirl stares at him before rolling his optic and holding out his arms. “Gee Doc, you can’t be that worried if you’re pulling the consent scrap.”

“On the contrary,” Rung says, keeping his voice and field light as he approaches, “I am worried about the injuries, but I don’t think they are life threatening. Therefore, it’s important I gain your consent before I approach and try to help.”

“Whatever.”

Whirl’ tenses as he gets closer. Rung makes sure to make every movement slow, from pulling out a cleaning rag (typically used for his glasses) out of one of his internal compartments, to examining both arms and deciding which injury needed the compression more. He doesn’t say anything, and interesting enough, the longer he stays silent the more Whirl relaxes.

“You said the Hatchet was on the way?” Whirl mutters.

“Yes.” Rung says, looking up at Whirl.

  
“And I take it the chances of me convincing you these are small wounds and you are completely over-reacting are slim to none, right?”

A few different responses rung through Rung’s processor, the chief one being ‘there’s enough energon on these walls to power a minicon’ but he doesn’t speak them. He instead gives Whirl a soft smile, and a simple “Correct.”

Whirl just slumps with against the wall, blowing out a hard vent. “Great.” He says, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Just fraggin’ great.”

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Rung finds out he isn’t the only one with mad skills. Ambulon’s got a little something goin’ on too! As always, I do not have an editor, or a beta, or whatever we’re calling those awesome people who catch things these days. As such, if you see a mistake call me on it and I’ll fix it ASAP!

 

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of self harm, mentions of suicide, mentions of starvation, and mentions of poor medical care? Self care? Both? Yeah. Let’s go with both. 

* * *

 

 

_‘Ratchet’s on his way.’_

But it’s not Ratchet standing in the doorway to the cell.

It’s Ambulon.

The nurse smiles apologetically, medical kit in hand. “Ratchet sent me.” He says, by way of explanation. He moves slowly as he talks, approaching Whirl in the same careful way Rung had. “I’m to assess and stabilize you while he gets a station up.”

Anger washes through Rung, though he tries to push it away before it shows in his field. Ratchet should know to trust his judgement on what kind of medical emergency required his presence. Furthermore the CMO had told Rung he was coming, himself. To send Ambulon after wasn’t something he appreciated, especially with Whirl’s current mental state. Ambulon is good though, he knows he is, and he steps aside to let the nurse do his job-even while making notes to have words with Ratchet later.

_After_ Whirl had been treated.

Ambulon kneels beside Whirl, field soothing. His movements are precise, non threatening-but something’s off. Rung unconsciously leans forward, trying to figure out what it is that feels different. The nurse has finished with one torque, was working quickly on another, and that little, crawling feeling lights up Rung’s spark.

Ambulon’s doing something.

He’s not sure what it is, just that he’s certain of it. Rung tries to puzzle it out, tries to get a feel on both mechs but he’d pulled himself from Whirl’s field and can’t see any outer change in the copter. Ambulon looks no different either, not that he’s seen much of the mech. Whatever it is, it doesn’t unsettle him, or set off any internal alarms- and after a moment he choses to relax. It was just one more thing he’d have to check into later.

He barely has time to think about it. Ambulon is as efficient as his boss is. He had gotten a torque on both Whirl’s arms and was stepping back, assessing for further damage.

Finding none, he spoke. “All good. My initial scans are showing me the damage is limited to your arms- you should be fine in all other areas. Ratchet will want a further examination, but you're clear to get up.” Ambulon holds out his hands, clearly intending to help do so. A snarl rips out of Whirl’s vocalizer, and the massive mech lurches to his feet before Ambulon can touch him. Instead of being surprised, Ambulon seems to be expecting it. He shifts, his body positioned so that if Whirl fell he could support the larger mech. Whirl teeters for a moment but remains upright and Ambulon slowly loosens his stance.

The nurse runs him through a series of slow movements, checking balance and his ability to walk. Nothing that involves using his arms, but enough to insure he won’t topple over on his way to the medbay.

“I can walk on my own.” Whirl says. Rung thinks it’s supposed to be a snarl, but Whirl doesn’t sound quite right. Ambulon doesn’t fight him. He mutters something low, too low for Rung to hear, but whatever it is it seems to settle Whirl.

“Good.” Ambulon says louder, optics glancing over the rotary one last time. “Because I won’t be walking with you. Ratchet has instructed me to go ahead and clear the way for you-Rung’s going to walk you there..”

::He should be perfectly capable of walking on his own.:: Ambulon continues through comms, on a private channel Rung has access too.. ::but comm me immediately if anything happens.::

Rung wants to frown, wants to pull Ambulon aside and demand to know what was going on, immediately (and honestly, he has a right to know. Ratchet knew better than to pull-whatever this was, without informing him.) but a tug on his spark keeps him silent. He casts a disapproving look instead, when he’s certain Whirl isn’t looking. Ambulon pretends to ignore it in favor of talking.

“Keep your arms up and take a slow pace. Ratchet is expecting you.” He says. He waits long enough for Whirl to grunt an acknowledgement before taking off. Rung’s frown deepens. It really only is his intuition that keeps him in place. This goes against Ratchet’s character, makes absolutely no sense and the smart thing for him to do is to raise a fuss to get the proper medical care he had requested. He’s obeyed it for this long though, and the little tugs have never led him astray. So Rung follows them, and turns to Whirl, ready to play escort.

“Shall we go then?” He asks, making an effort to purge, again, his field of negative emotions.

Whirl doesn’t answer, just lurches out the door.

xXx  

They were halfway to the medbay when Whirl finally spoke.

“How much trouble am I in?”

Rung’s optics shuttered, surprised. “None. Ultra Magnus released you, your punishment is over.”

“Not what I meant Doc.” Whirl said. Rung simply waited. He didn’t have to for long.

“How much trouble am I in with you n’ the Hatchet?” Honestly, he was more concerned what Rung’s reaction was going to be rather than Ratchet’s. He knew how Ratchet would react.

Rung on the other hand, was less predictable. He was also fully capable of pulling Whirl off the roster for all the fun stuff if he deemed him mentally unfit for duty. That was a certain brand of hell that Whirl had no intention of returning to.

“None. Whirl you are injured. You are going to be treated for those injuries.” Whirl opened his mouth to repeat that that wasn’t what he meant, _again_ , but Rung beat him too it. “You are not in trouble for harming yourself. Mental injuries are just as serious as physical ones, sometimes more so, and It is my job to try and help you heal those injuries. Nothing will be done to make them worse.”

“‘S that mean you aren’t pullin’ me off the duty roster?” Whirl squinted, drawing himself up to his full height. Unphased (this was a common Whirl-response) Rung simply titled his head up.

“Would you like to be pulled off the duty roster?” He asked.

“Frag no!”

“Than no. Once Ratchet declares you medically fit to work you can resume immediately.” Rung said. They continued the walk in silence, Rung desperately trying to keep his eyes forward and off Whirl’s dripping limbs. The torques were holding, but Rung worried anyways. Whirl was doing his best to sound normal, act normal, but they both knew he was far from it. His field, when Rung could teek it, was a mess of emotions. As much as he was upset at the situation, he was happy that Ambulon had gone ahead to clear the way. Despite the late hour, the _Lost Light’s_ inhabitants all rotated schedules and there were enough mechs up to warrant a potential run in. Whirl was not the kind of mech who did well when injured, no matter who he ran into, and right now that wasn’t a situation Rung wanted to mediate.

Even with Ambulon’s policing, he still considered them lucky when they reached the medbay without incident.

Whirl let Rung rush him inside, which the smaller mech was both thankful for and worried about. Whirl fought hard against going to the medbay, and hated being laid up there. To willingly go in, without any kind of remark was a little worrisome. Whirl wasn’t out of it as he had been,and he clearly was making an effort to sound normal, but he was still too on edge for Rung’s liking.

Ratchet had apparently dismissed Ambulon, as he was the only mech present. He was bustling about, trusting Rung to guide Whirl over to the nearest berth. Still waking the equipment and adjusting sensors, it took Ratchet a few seconds before he turned around and assessed the damage.

Rung had known Ratchet a long time-long enough to see him suck back his usual irritable comments when he caught sight of Whirl. He snaps right into action instead, ordering Rung back and for Whirl to hold out his arms. The lack of the medic’s infamous temper is clearly confusing Whirl, at least enough for the ‘copter to follow orders without a fuss. Instead he’s casting looks between Rung and Ratchet, as though trying to catch them out on a lie.

Rung just gives him an encouraging smile, trying to teek comfort in his field. The repairs begin instantly, without much questions beyond “Where else are you bleeding.” Rung stays to watch, even though he often has to cast his optics elsewhere when it comes to the more grotesque repairs. He wanted to stay for Whirl, so the mech would have a friendly face at least nearby. Medical care had always been a sore spot for the ‘Copter. Armed with a likely better idea of why exactly that was, Rung was reluctant to leave him knowing the distress it might cause.

That’s what he told himself, anyways.

The knowing look Ratchet cast him after the worst of the wounds were cleaned and properly sealed meant he probably wasn’t as smooth as he’d like to appear.

Rung chose to ignore his old friend. He wasn’t happy with him, and had no problems letting the medic know it (so long as Whirl didn’t.) Besides, Ratchet would kick him out if absolutely necessary. Rung was, technically, partially in charge of Whirl’s medical care. He was allowed to be there when it was deemed necessary. He was also supposed to be part of a team with Ratchet or another medic taking on the other role of actual physician. The point was to have a team who worked together to get through as many issues a patient faced in the best way possible, for everyone involved. So far they’d simply had too many mechs with too many problems to properly disperse and arrange such things. Only the most desperate of cases was given what had once been standardized treatment.

Sadly, Whirl was not yet at that point. Or hadn’t been, anyway.

This might change a few things.

“‘Ight Rung. Out.” Ratchet as always, was blunt and to the point. Rung nodded at him, but his optics remained on Whirl, judging how the mech would take his leave of absence.

“As you command.” He said, trying to inject humor into his voice. Technically Ratchet, as CMO, was Rung’s boss. It’s the kind of thing overlooked by most mechs, and definitely the kind of thing Whirl would find amusing. Except the mech in question was ignoring him. He was clearly not paying Rung much attention, instead focusing on Ratchet.

“Don’t go far.” Ratchet warns, eyes never leaving his scanners.

Rung nods again, casting a gentle smile at Whirl as he leaves.

Whirl finally turned to watch him go. A small part of him wished the therapist would stay, if only so he could use him to duck the slag he knew Ratchet was going to drag him through.

xXx

Ratchet was unlike any medic Whirl’d ever encountered. Angry, violent, and volatile, but pure in his work. Ratchet lived and breathed the medbay like Whirl lived and breathed kicking ‘Con aft. He was dedicated to it, proud of it, and those two things combined with his zero bullshit tolerance policy meant Whirl had more trouble slipping things past him than anyone else. Even Springer had been easier to fool and Springer had been the only mech he’d ever served under that had, on some level, understood him.

Add to that, Ratchet had finally gotten a deep scan from him. All the things Whirl had hidden, everything he had avoided. All his secrets.

All out in the open.

Ratchet had questions. He would expect answers. It didn’t matter if Whirl scrapped the entire medbay and several mechs with it, Ratchet would get those answers. He couldn't use Ratchet’s own exhaustion and busyness against him anymore.

If Rung had remained, he might have been able to starve most of it off. Rung played a different game than Ratchet, and Whirl got away with far more. He knew Rung let him, was actively choosing not to pursue certain things. It was clearly a tactic used to try and gain some kind of trust or comradery between the two of them. It was stupid of him, really, because Whirl was a master at misdirection, dodging, and blatantly ignoring anything he didn’t want to hear.

Ratchet on the other hand, knew how to do it right.

Mech went straight in for the kill. The only way Whirl knew how to dodge that was physically, and damned if he didn’t respect the medic enough not to do that. Well that and it had been hammered into his head (rather literally, usually with a wrench and on one special occasion, a chair) how bad it was for other ‘bots for Whirl to destroy medbay equipment.

He wasn’t here to offline anyone else but himself.

“We’re gonna start easy.” Ratchet said, though it came out more as a warning. He was standing directly between Whirl and the door, and Whirl was honestly amazed he hadn’t made some kind of attempt to weld his aft to the berth.

Then again, he had probably tried. Rung must have talked him out of it.

Whirl snorted at the thought. Eyebrows was too soft sparked for his own good.  
  
“Why are your fuel levels all over the place?”

Whirl shuttered his optics because okay, yeah that hadn’t been the first question he thought the good doctor was going to spring on him. “Why the frag did you rip all your medical ports up?” had been his guess.

“Well Doc, ya see, sometimes we go on these things called _missions_ -”

“Nice try.” Ratchet cuts him off, as they both knew he would. “You know damn well your fuel levels are above and beyond any kind of regular battle stress.” He spun a scanner around, poking at it until it showed some kind of chart. “See this? This indicates days of no fuel, to the point of near stasis lock, and this,” Ratchet’s finger followed a line, “Indicates overfueling. This is how a mech who is being severely starved for long periods of time looks, Whirl.”

Whirl puffed himself up, forcing another snort out of his vents. “You know how bad it gets on the frontlines. An’ us Wreckers? We were on the worst of the worst.” The pride in his voice isn’t forced, not like the light tone he’s been trying to use. “We weren’t a place for scaredy-bots or anybody _sensitive_.” The last word is sneered, indicating not only the few hundreds of bots who couldn’t cut it in the Wreckers but all the ones who couldn’t even make it past Rung’s psych eval.

Ratchet didn’t bother to acknowledge that, instead point to a series of numbers along the top of the graph. “These are dates. Times relating to your body. This?” A larger gesture indicating the full graph, “This is only looking at your fueling levels since you’ve joined the _Lost Light_.”

Well.

Scrap.

Whirl stared at the graph, fidgeting slightly. He made a move to scratch at a medical port and aborted it-wildly hoping the medic hadn’t noticed. This had been why he hadn’t wanted Ratchet to get a full scan. It revealed too much. Forced him to explain things. Not that it mattered. He’d played this game long enough, was gifted enough at bullshitting to pull something out of his aft.

So that’s what he did.

“Wanted to see how hard I could push myself.” Whirl said. “Turns out it was pretty far. Lookit that! Ol’ Whirlybird made it four whole days without refueling! Didn’t fall into stasis lock either, I’d say that’s pretty good!” He curved his optic up, keeping that light infliction-the lightest he could manage with his empurata, on his tone. It’d taken him a long time to learn just how to exaggerate his movements to convey any emotion at all, but in the long run it worked for him. Having to fake it in the beginning meant he could fake it at will.

Ratchet stared at him. It wasn’t a glare, not yet, but it held the kind of steely determination Whirl didn’t like to see pointed in his direction. The more people looked at him, actually looked at him, and not at what he was doing or saying, the worse off he was. He remembered all too well what had happened the last time mechs looked at him like that.

It was made worse because the mech giving him that look was Ratchet. Any other bot would have bought his story and kicked him to Rung. Not Ratchet, oh no. Ratchet took poor medical health as a personal insult, and frag you if you thought you could get away with anything in his presence, on his ships, in his general location.

“This was a few weeks preluding Overlord.” Ratchet didn’t bother to elaborate. The ‘Overlord Incident’ only needed the phase sixer’s name for others to know when exactly he meant. “When Red Alert was hearing voices.”

Whirl’s armor tried to slick down at the words and he forced them to lie normally. Ratchet was guessing. He was pulling at strings trying to get a reaction, trying to get somewhere, and Whirl wasn’t going to give him that.

“So? What’s that got to do with my awesome, clearly unrivaled skills?” He interrupted. “You wanna talk about Red’s weird aft slag, go talk to Rung. Not that it matters now.” Yeah let’s just remind him about what happened to Red Alert. That shut a lot of mechs up pretty quick. Uncomfortable topics always did.

Ratchet blew right through it. He stared at him instead. Examining. Thinking. Whirl glared back.

“He had a few incidents. With locking mechs in their rooms. Right around,” One servo landed on the graph, tracing a few numbers, “here. About the same time when your fuel levels tanked.” He didn’t break optic contact.

Fragging medic. Ratchet was like Bob when the stupid bug got a hold of a metal shard. Unwilling to give it up, for anything. But Whirl was a pro at distractions. Knew just what buttons to press. The formula for distracting anyone was always the same; cause a little chaos, admit to causing a little chaos, insult the mech in question and bam! They forgot all about why you were paranoid about who touched your drink, or how your guns onlined automatically when someone drunkenly cheered for you using words like “good mech.”

He couldn’t cause chaos as he was, so Whirl went for option two, taking credit. “I know, it was hysterical. Psycho-lonus right about took the door off his habsuite. I’ll tell you a secret about that though,” Whirl lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Red didn’t lock Cyc in. I did. Got Atomizer to try and help unlock it too.” There. That should, absolutely, do it. Cyclonus had nearly offlined Atomizer when the latter mech finally got the door opened. That had started a fight, which had landed a grand total of six mechs in Ratchets care. He _knew_ Ratchet remembered that incident.

It should have been enough to get him into trouble-the kind of trouble that was completely different than the kind he was going to be in if Ratchet didn’t let go of the current topic. A much safer kind of trouble.  
  
Except Ratchet wasn’t falling for it, _at all_. “I can see people not necessarily noticing you were missing from your usual hangout places-but not showing up for duty? For four days?” Ratchet’s optics were starting to burn a hole into Whirl’s, daring him to say anything other than the truth.Whirl took such dares personally, and as such, onlined his vocalizer to try again.

Ratchet; apparently sensing Whirl’s intent with that magical medic mind of his that Whirl was beginning to hate more than usual, abruptly decided he was done playing and went straight for the throat. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to get Ultra Magnus involved.”

They both knew what that meant. Mags was still touchy after everything that had happened- Luna 1. Brainstorm. Everything. Something like this? He’d obsesses over it immediately, interviewing everyone he could and generally making a nuisance of himself until someone broke down. That somebody wouldn’t be Whirl, but the whole thing would be far more of a mess than he ever wanted to deal with, especially with him at the center.

It was a solid threat-and though Ratchet didn’t know it, gave Whirl two options. He could cave now, focusing on the fuel issue, or he could refuse and let Magnus dig around. And if Mags dug around there was a chance he could unveil other things-things Whirl absolutely did not want brought to light.

As he always did, he took the option that minimized the damage.

“They noticed. They found me too.” His admittance sounded like it’d been dragged out of him- because it had. He tried to leave it there, but it wasn’t enough. Not for Ratchet.

“And?” The medic prodded.

“Thought it was funny.” His voice was quieter now, his field beginning to swirl, building the prelude to the violent reactions he was so known for.  
  
Ratchet didn’t care. “They left you there?”

Whirl didn’t bother voicing an answer. He jerked his helm a the chart and let it speak for itself.

“Names.” Ratchet demanded and ooohh, that was a command if he’d ever heard one. Whirl sneered-or did as best he could with his face the way it was. The rage flickered within him-he let Ratchet feel it. He respected the medic. He was the best Whirl’d ever had. He didn’t need to feel weak admitting that because everyone knew it.

But that didn’t mean the medic wasn’t pushing it, and Whirl was only going to take so much.

Was only taking so much because of how off he really was. He clenched his claws, feeling the new welds on his arms flex painfully.

“Not a chance in the pit, Doc. I ain’t no snitch.”

He let that linger in the air, along with the promise of violence lurking in his field. Ratchet finally seemed to accept it, shaking his head and flicking the chart until it showed a different set of numbers. The relief in Whirl’s field was palpable, even if it abruptly vanished from where Ratchet could teek it. The chart changed again as he presses a few more buttons, displaying other read-outs Whirl can’t deny.  
  
“Your self-repair systems are barely working at 50 percent.” Ratchet said, abruptly switching topics. “There’s a number of wires here that weren’t properly repaired or reattached. You have at least three different viruses-all mainly non-threatening or fatal, but at least two of them have been there long enough for them to mutate. And there’s just dozens more errors, small problems. Rerouting, built charge, error messages-Whirl this all adds up.”

“Eh.” Whirl shrugged. “I can live with it.” The tension was still there still, bleeding into Whirl’s frame, but they were both trying to play it off. Whirl letting himself sink back down into a slouch. Letting his plating, his field, settle.

“I could have helped you with this.” Ratchet tries to say it quietly, tries to keep the frustration out of his voice. He didn’t succeed. “I could have cleared all of this.”

The ‘why didn’t you tell me’ hung unsaid between them. Ratchet knew Whirl had problems-with authority, with the medbay, with people in general. He’d had to chase Whirl down twice just to do a normal check up, and only got that far by threatening to knock him into stasis if he didn’t stop distracting or otherwise antagonizing mechs in hopes of getting out of it. He’d let Whirl go so long as things were because he had dealt with mechs like him before. Mechs he had needed to build trust with-mechs who he could trust to at least come to him if something went terribly wrong.

It was obvious that he’d misjudged. Whirl’s resentment and general hatred of the medbay went deeper than he realized, and he could only curse at himself for not seeing it.

It especially became obvious when a number of the same minor issues kept cropping up. The kind that were all indicators of a much larger issue. He’d been testing Whirl for it as they talked, unbeknownst to the rotary, and he sighed internally when he got the results back from his scan.

Positive.

Yeah. That was a larger issue alright. One Whirl was not going to take well.

No mech ever did.

Whirl, as always, ignored the plea, denied an explanation. “Come on Hatchet.” He grumbled, kicking his legs. “I answered all your questions. Can I go now?”

“If you answer one more, yes.”

“Fine.” Whirl ex-vented hard. Here it was. ‘ What the frag did you pick apart your arms for?’ He’d known it had been coming this whole session. He felt like he’d been through the ringer all ready, and they both knew this was pointless. Whirl would never admit why he did it. He wouldn’t talk about the overwhelming panic or the nightmares. The bad purges, the shit a warrior as strong as him wasn’t supposed to have. He knew Ratchet had to ask. it was just how he worked.

Just as he wouldn’t be able to get Whirl to admit slag, because that’s how he worked.

So Whirl settled in, for one more round of verbal sparring, intending to take a much stronger stance on this one when Ratchet blindsided him.

“When is the last time you expelled your interface charge?”

Whirl froze. “What?”

Ratchet hasn’t moved an inch, other than to play with the chart, which is showing-yup, his fragging interface charge read-outs.  
  
“Your interface charge-it’s completely backed up. All that misaligned coding can seriously effect you. It interferes with all your basic body functions. HUD, processors, your logical and judgement centers-” Ratchet’s voice is the same as it always is. Grumpy, but professional. Smooth. Not that it matters when Whirl’s processor overlays it with another medic’s voice. Another medic’s words.

_“ You know what most of this sounds like? It sounds like misaligned coding, Whirl. The kind you get when you don't take care of regular charges like a good bot.”_

Ratchet had expected the negative reaction, but not the violent explosion. Whirl was up and off the table in an instant, plating slick in some places and puffed out in a threat display in others, a reaction his body didn’t like all so well. His guns onlined with a whine and he was moving, faster than Ratchet could catch him, towards the door. He whirled at the last minute as Ratchet cursed, looming above the medic when he tried to give chase.  
  
“This conversation is over.” He snarled and something must have given Ratchet pause because he backed up, arms slowly in the air in a placating gesture. “We are _done_ and you _will not_ bring this up again.”

Then he was gone.

Ratchet was old and it took a lot for him to be caught off guard, but that’s exactly what he was. He gaped at the door, amazed Whirl hadn’t torn right through it. He’d never seen Whirl that worked up, even when he’d been half destroyed by Fort Max.

This was bad. Whirl was dangerous like this. Ratchet vaguely considered contacting Ultra Magnus just to make sure Whirl didn’t kill anyone-but he decided against it. It wasn’t likely he was going to encounter anyone at this hour, and adding Magnus into the mix guaranteed a negative reaction. It helped when Ambulon pinged him a minute later, a simple message saying he’d follow Whirl to make sure he was safe. Ratchet sent a quick reply to be careful, then took a few, deep vents.

When he felt calmer, steadier, he commed Rung.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please point out if you find any errors or miss any tags. I don’t have an editor, but Ao3 makes that shit easy. 
> 
> So Ambulon kinda stole the show for this chapter. I’ve been having lots of Ambulon feels lately. No idea why. His story’s absolutely second to Whirl and Rung’s but it weaves around theirs and will show up from time to time. Typically when his and Whirl’s story intersects. 
> 
> Which thinking on it, is mostly this chapter and the next one, but ya never know with me. Also is it just me or are these chapter’s getting longer? I swear, you gotta keep things like this on a tight leash or next thing you know the next chapter’s grown to thirty pages. Hungry plot monster, yeesh.

Warnings for this Chapter: Ambulon feels. Um, body experimentation, chronic illness/pain, something sort of like telepathy and emotional manipulation but not quite the same,  and paint stripping (which isn't self harm but more of a compulsive behavior in response to pain levels and emotional states.)

* * *

 

“I trust you have a good explanation for all of this.”

It was mildly accusatory, not that Ratchet blamed the therapist. Rung wasn’t happy with him right now, but he’d known that would happen the second he’d agreed to let Ambulon go in place of him. “I have a certain level of trust with my staff. Ambulon made a valid point, then offered his assistance, and I agreed his approach would be better.” He said. He wasn’t put off-if anything he’d be worried if Rung wasn’t upset with him. He’d certainly be, if he was in the therapist's position.

But there were some things Ratchet just couldn’t tell him about.

Some things he wasn’t all too certain of, himself.

“And how did that prevent you from sending a short comm?” One doesn’t often associate Rung with the word “icy” but here they were. Ratchet swallowed his temper down. He had something bigger to focus on-they both did.

“It didn't. I promise I'll explain later but right now? We have a situation.” The datapad he drops in front of Rung contains enough information to keep a mech busy for a few nights, so he isn’t surprised when Rung doesn’t bother to read it, instead downloading the information. The less preferred way of reading, but one significantly more effective.

Ratchet sits back and waits for the moment when Rung realizes how screwed the situation they’re in is.

He doesn’t have to wait for long.

xXx

Ambulon was broken.

He’s been broken, ever since the gestalt trials. He’s never told anyone that he was broken (why bother, when they could see for themselves?) but there were...aspects, to his damaged body that he didn’t care to share.

Aspects he’d been rather careful to hide, particularly around Ratchet. It was for the same reason he always concealed it. Chronic pain. Helm-aches, body aches, a constantly overclocked processor and a barrage of error messages was just the tip of it things he faced daily. All of which he feared would get him booted from his job if discovered. Being a medic was all Ambulon has left -particularly after working under Pharma. He had feared how Ratchet would react upon finding him out. Worried if being kicked off the duty roster would be his only repercussion-because what else does he have to offer? He hasn’t been around long enough to gain comradery with the crew. Many still distrust him, and his time in the ‘Cons make him nervous at being caught out as weak. Seen as useless. 

It only took a few weeks working under Ratchet to have his fears shift entirely.

Ratchet wouldn’t remove him from duty. Oh no, Ratchet would do worse. He would try to fix him. Not just fix him, but fix him completely-something he knows no one would be able to do. He’s a medic. Perhaps not as good as one as those around him, but still a medic. He damn well knew had badly those fragging gestalt trials had gone-and how lucky he was to be alive. (Or unlucky, depending on how he felt about surviving that particular day.) He also knew that it there was a high chance Ratchet would obsess over it. Over fixing it. Over being unable to fix him.

So Ambulon was careful.

First Aid had known some of it. At least, enough to know Ambulon’s in pain and not actively asking for help. First Aid however, can be bribed with promises of looking away at certain badge-related activities and a few assurances that everything is just fine, thank you.

He likes to think he’d been doing pretty good, that Ratchet was none the wiser-until of course, life had to catch up and he’d been forced to make a choice.

A choice in the shape of a fuzzy brig security feed, showing Whirl and Rung.

Looking back, he could have smacked himself for agreeing to switch shifts with Lancet.

Access to the security feeds wasn’t something usually given to the medbay, but then, what was usual on the _Lost Light?_ Nothing, that was what. Access had been given in cases of a drunken brawl gone wrong, a common occurrence that often pulled a number of mechs with injuries into the brig. Allowing the medbay access saved a significant amount of time just in terms of general preparedness. Knowing who might need help the most, who had what injuries, who might need to be moved and how many berths needed to be prepared (most of the time, it was all of them.) On top of that, The _Lost Light’s_ drunken brawls, or regular brawls, or any kind of fight at all, had a bad habit of involving so many mechs it practically shut down the medbay. Any additional space was good space when Ratchet could still see a mech and have access to an intercom to yell about picking at fresh welds.

Of course, one didn’t actively monitor the security feeds unless there was such a scenario. Ambulon hadn’t been tonight. Wouldn’t have, except he’d been commed to do so. By both Ultra Magnus and Ratchet.

Ratchet had done so to have him prepare for a potential patient as well as to ask him to look into the feeds, and Ultra Magnus for what was essentially the same reason hidden under “normal protocol.” The mech liked to know what was happening-particularly since it had been Rung who had commed him to begin with. Everyone knew something was dead serious if Rung was the one to comm it in.

The heads up allowed Ambulon to assess the situation immediately, through the security feeds. A situation he quickly realized could get violently out of hand-in a way Autobots just often weren’t prepared for.

He may have been forced to admit the ‘Bots was the better side to be on, but there was still a handful of cultural differences they just never quite seem to get. Handling injured, highly aggressive mechs with enough training to take down a base was one of them. The ‘Cons, having been made up of not only a lot of lower castes but those that dealt with very large frame times and dangerous jobs, were used to the concept of mechs reacting poorly to being in a weakened state. Half the ‘Con culture was built around it. How to not get taken advantage of, in any situation. Something Autobots didn’t just instinctively think about-or perhaps, only did to a certain point. Ambulon honestly hadn’t been with them long enough to know.

The point was, when a mech like Whirl was injured in the ‘Cons, protocols fell into place. The halls to the medbay were cleared. Known rivals or enemies distracted or otherwise located to be kept away. Medics reacted calmly, and in a non-threatening manner. They announced their presence and what they were going to do until safely in the medbay where they could knock a bot out. The culture Megatron had cultivated meant that very few mechs would ever attempt to fight another mech who was already hurt-winning such a fight wasn’t considered a show of strength but rather one of cowardice and weakness-but that didn’t mean it didn’t happen.. Particularly considering how injured ‘Con’s tended to _act._ Thus, the only mechs allowed were medics and those the injured mech cleared to come with them-which was typically a trinemate.

Trinemate’s were another reason ‘Cons liked to clear the halls before bringing in the injured.

Otherwise it just made sense-got everyone out of the way, gave a clear path with no interruptions and allowed medics to worry about other things. Important ones, like assessing and minimizing damage.

The minute Ambulon had realized Whirl was going to need to be treated at the medbay was the very same one when he realized no one was going to clear a path for Rung and Whirl.

Mechs were out, too. There always were-but Ambulon could think of several who specifically had reasons to be in Rung and Whirl’s path. Two of which would absolutely cause trouble.

A lot of trouble, if Whirl remained as he was. Even through the grainy security footage Ambulon could see Whirl’s wounds were self-inflicted, which spoke volumes about his current mental and emotional states.

Rung was good, but he wasn’t going to calm Whirl down. Not as wound up as the rotary was currently. Moving him in that state was going to be dangerous without encountering other mechs.

No, there was nothing anybody could say to bring Whirl more “out of it.” The only person who could do something, make this safer, make this easier on everyone, was him.

Ambulon checked his chronometer-if he made it down there now he could do it. Calm Whirl. Bring him into a bit more of a normal mental state. Clear the way. Assess and successfully regroup at the medbay quietly, without further drama.

Unfortunately on an Autobot ship, a medic yelling “clear the way!” would only gather more attention than it would divert it-so he’d be forced to rely on something a little more unusual. Something that Ambulon absolutely did not want to use.

A side effect from the gestalt trials, the same side effect he could use to calm Whirl.

Even if it hurt him in the process.

It would work though. Guaranteed. They’d be able to get Whirl in and out without any problem. More than Whirl-Ratchet could treat him (hopefully) without an unusual amount of fuss, and everyone could move on to more important parts of Whirl’s treatment.

But most importantly, it wouldn’t backfire on Rung.

Ambulon knew as well as Ratchet did that Whirl tended to be protective over the therapist. That he valued and identified him as a friend.

Rotaries weren’t seekers, but they often shared the same behaviors. They got claustrophobic, they couldn’t be grounded over extended periods of time, and they were incredibly protective over people they had an interest in. Rung guiding Whirl to the medbay wouldn’t soothe him any. It’d stress him out more-Rung was a non-combatant and easily hurt. Had taken a near-fatal injury _recently._ It would ramp up all aggressive behaviors and anything Rung did to try and stop Whirl would likely make it worse-Rung wasn’t the kind to step back and let Whirl snarl to prove he was tough even while injured. Pit, the Autobots in general probably weren’t familiar with that behavior, they had such few flight frames.

Ambulon at times wondered if Whirl even knew that was likely the reason he got like that-flight specific coding wasn’t something that Ambulon had heard a lot about in his time here. Hadn’t really been common knowledge before the war. Perhaps he simply just wasn’t among the flight frames enough, but in the ‘Cons there were so many that a mech knew what to do and what not to do around the varying types. About what flight-coding did-how it was used to identify mechs in the air quickly, as well as the protectiveness that grew around those kinds of relationship ties-because if one flight mech went down there was not only a risk to something like a seeker trine, but also to every other flight frame in the sky.

Out of control was a good way to take down other airborne mechs. Not to mention the constant rapid-fire decisions warfare placed on fliers, and their protectiveness extending to the fact that grounded fliers were safer in groups. Could fight and better protect themselves in them. Flight frames just weren’t made for grounded combat-they were too bulky, often with sensitive things like wings or blades acting as large targets. There was more to it-enough that Ambulon had had to quell the urge to give the _Lost Light_ crew a presentation on it more than once.

One would think that Rung might know such things, or at least be aware given his career, but the knowledge that been common before the war had only ever centered around Seekers.

Seekers, being the speedsters of the air, had most of the same flight-coding as all other fliers. Their processors just amplified the coding. Made the differences between them and ground mechs more apparent. Even then, most mechs thought is was a Vos thing, a cultural thing, not a coding thing. And hey, other fliers-the jets, shuttles, rotaries, etc, didn’t often show the coding as clearly as they did. So it was assumed not to exist. It was likely Rung had only ever come across papers arguing about it as a cultural phenomenon, if at all.

But he was getting off track.

The point was, there was a high probability Rung was about to unknowingly walk into a dangerous situation.

One Ambulon could prevent-if he was allowed to do so. He’d have to convince Ratchet to let him go in his place first. He knew Ratchet was stopping by to snatch a medkit grab bag. To convince him to let Ambulon go in his stead, he had to either come up with a damn good cover story-

Or he’d have to tell the truth. Because explaining that he could calm Whirl down long before ever leaving the brig, that he was capable of not only clearing a path so no mech aggravated the rotary but put him in a mindset that would make him far more receptive to treatment, calm him from the absolutely panicked place he was obviously in? That required the truth. Or Ratchet would never believe him-never let him go.

Ambulon closed his optics briefly, then made the choice that he knew was going to haunt him.

xXx

It hurt.

But it always did and this was far more important.

Ambulon successfully calmed Whirl down. Gotten him-well not back, but in a far better mental state than he had been. Had gotten Rung and Whirl to the medbay safely. It hadn’t been too long of a walk. He’d mostly cleared it on his way down-done all the heavy lifting when someone wasn’t going to see his pained face. It made it easier on him on the back, even if it made his tanks roll and his pain all the worse. Even if he had needed to lock himself in his habsuite with his head between his knees and his hands ripping off paint in chunks in a desperate attempt to distract from the seething pain.

He was certain it was worth the effort-until Whirl had gone flying out. Like all medical staff, Ambulon’s room was only two doors down from the medbay. A protocol long put in place so they were close enough to help immediately if something happened.

His door had been closed and he couldn’t really hear most of the things Whirl had yelled, but he could physically feel the distress in the rotaries field as he went bolting past. The intent to hurt something was so strong it came through the wall.

Well. That wasn’t good.

Ambulon had forced himself back up, back out with the intentions of chasing Whirl down. Calming him down regardless of how much it hurt him.

It was his curse after all. His final gift from the gestalt trails. Gestalt technology worked by linking mechs together, through a number of bonds. Ambulon’s gestalt had been destroyed before the bonds, before the programming, had been completed.

The result?

His processor constantly looked for others to connect to. Constantly searched for anyone to be a part of his gestalt. His mind had been altered along with his body, to accept the presence of others and the lack of them physically hurt. The backlash was unbearable, but more so when Ambulon allowed it to open. To search. He still wasn’t sure exactly what it even was, just that it was strong and capable of more than Ambulon realized.

Be it spark energy, some kind of coding reaching through his field, wifi signals, or a devil’s mixture, it was something that could connect to others. Something that could take down certain firewalls, attack a mechs coding. Get into their heads without them ever noticing. He wasn’t sure how far it could go, or what it could even access, but whatever it was was important in establishing a link.

Except it couldn’t establish a bond without there being some kind of consent, or returned coding. Something. Whatever this thing inside of him was searching for, it couldn’t find.

And that hurt more than anything that had ever been done to him.

It had benefits though. Unexpected ones. Ambulon was able to calm and soothe those around him while the coding was active. While it searched around him, looking through the nearest mechs in its never ending search for siblings that no longer existed.

The scientists, the ones who ran the trials, thought it might have attached itself to conjux protocols or heat protocols-something that made the affected mechs act calmer and far less aggressive around the medic. They’d never found out if that was what it was for certain, because Ambulon had bolted.

Bolted because they wanted him to try again.

Connect to a new gestalt. See if he could completely re-create the bonds. But it hurt. Primus did it hurt-and Ambulon couldn’t go through all that pain, not again. Not in general and certainly not for a cause he was positive was dead. Not when the mechs running the program saw him as disposable.

Ambulon just accepted it. Accepted the pain. Accepted the ability to change a mech’s mindset. Just as he accepted that he needed to follow Whirl, to keep him and everyone else safe. To put him in a mental state where he would calm down quickly, not hurt himself or others. To make sure no one aggravated him.

 _‘At least this slag came with something positive.’_ He thought idly, as he pursued the rotary. Watched as mechs who had initially stuck their helms out at the passing noise paused upon seeing him, upon being hit by his gestalt coding and slowly closed their doors, put at ease.

Something he could use for good. Something he could use for a real cause.

Even if it killed him.

Pain ripped through Ambulon, helm-to-spark and he winced, forcing a whine down his throat before it got out. He took a few deep vents. Whirl was well ahead of him, but moving quickly enough to ignore the few mechs in his way. Ambulon kept them away, and relaxed immediately when he heard a door slam and knew Whirl had barricaded himself in his habsuit. He could work through walls, when he had too.

The pain was overtaking him but Ambulon rallied in the face of it.

His work was almost done.

He just needed to finish this-to insure Whirl was calm-before he could go back and drop on his berth.

Then he could rest and ride the worst of it out.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter warnings: mentions/thoughts of suicide, general violence, emotional manipulation.

* * *

  
  
  
“Primus.” Rung swore quietly. He popped his glasses off, pulling a rag from one of his many compartments. He rubbed it carelessly, the motion meant to soothe rather than clean. _“Primus.”_  
  
They were slagged.  
  
“This is life threatening, Rung. I’m honestly amazed Whirl’s made it this far. Frankly I think he’s amazed too.” Ratchet was growing more certain of it by the second. He’d known Whirl was suicidal. Had known that since his initial examination upon being brought on board. It was why he’d been sent to Rung so quickly.  
  
Rung’s optics, so rarely seen, landed on Ratchet. After a silent moment of consideration, he spoke. “Give him a month, Ratchet.” His voice was quiet. Desperate.  “Please.”  
  
They needed that time. If Whirl was to survive at all, or come out of this even remotely functional, they could not rush this.  
  
Ratchet stared him down, the infamous Hatchet Glare running at full power. If this hadn’t been such a serious moment, if so much wasn’t at stake, Rung would’ve smiled. The silly fool always forgot that Rung had known him far longer than most others. Long enough to remember teasing Ratchet for practicing that glare in the mirror in med school.    
  
Soon enough, Ratchet seemed to remember this. He dropped the glare, vents hissing out a sigh.  
  
“A month.” He agreed. “But only because you asked, and only because I expect you to keep track of him.”  
  
Some people (or rather a certain pair of  twins) would be astonished to learn that Ratchet  even had the capacity to back down. Some had seen him go against the Prime, after all.  
  
But the Prime wasn’t Rung. And a little known secret about Rung-he could do  ‘Disappointed Parental Unit’  better than any other bot.  
  
Rung, every bit as serious, returned the look, his field sincere. “I will.” He said.  
  
Ratchet watched him walk out of the medbay. “You’d better.” He said softly. The consequences of this going poorly could potentially affect a lot more than just Whirl, and it wasn’t just the ‘copter he worried over.  “You’d better.”  
  
xXx  
  
  
“Did Ratchet send you to follow me? You gonna try n’ bring me back?”  
  
Of all the things Ambulon had expected, it wasn’t to be caught. Especially by a rotary that was growing angrier by the minute. He’d defused the majority of Whirl’s...extreme emotions, and the aggression left was far safer than it had been. Safer didn’t mean safe though and  with a processor threatening to mutiny, Ambulon was at a heavy disadvantage.  
  
Frag. He was losing his touch.  
  
_‘No, you just overdid it.’_ Ambulon chastised himself. Whirl had turned on him directly before his hab suite, catching Ambulon right as he’d come around the corner. The warden had been too surprised to feign innocence and Whirl hadn’t been inclined to let him get away with it anyway.

Apparently, the door slam had been a ruse.   
   
Which left him here, facing one seriously fragged off ‘Copter. It was still a dangerous situation, and he should be treating it as such. Instead Ambulon stared passively at Whirl, fighting fatigue and tried to find something within himself that made him care. Finding none, he just stood there.  
  
The ‘copter’s armor bristled, his optic narrowed. His voicebox spat a shriek of static before he spoke again.  “‘Cause they shoulda sent a lot more mechs than you if he’s gonna try to force me back.”  
   
“No, he’s speaking with Rung. I came on my own.” Ambulon said. Because honesty is the best policy right? It was all he had left, so it would have to be.  
  
“Good.” If mechs could spit, Whirl would have done it then. “Then why’re you here?” He added, tone venomous.  
  
Ambulon sighed. This was the part he wasn’t so good at. He just hoped his mockery of an ability could help him. Even through the blinding helm-ache. He reached out again with it, touched Whirl.  
  
_‘Calm.’ He thought, trying to focus. ‘Easy. Vent slowly, in and out.’_

  
He had to hide the victorious smile when Whirl did just that.

  
Ambulon moved back, tucking into himself. Making himself smaller. ‘Cons may read more into body language than Bot’s but that didn’t mean bots didn’t read body language at all. “Just wanted to make sure you were alright.” Ambulon answered.  
  
Whirl snorted. “Bullshit.” He said making  Ambulon thankful for Ratchet’s mouth-he only had the basic English package downloaded, but the CMO’s near constant swearing had given him a boost in multiple languages. “Why’d you really follow me? Want to kick the ol’ Whirly bird when he’s down? Taken some screenshots for a laugh?”  
  
_‘Keep venting. Calm. You’re safe. Think of what makes you safe. Picture it in your mind, hold it there. Let it soak in.’_ He’s not sure if mechs can hear his words, consciously or subconsciously. They sometimes take his suggestions, other times ignore him completely. It seems to depend on the person. As long as it works he doesn’t care.  
  
“I thought I saw an IV line in your arm. I was making sure. If it was, it needs to be safely removed.” _‘Take another vent. Slowly. Safe. You’re safe.’_  
  
Whirl vented again, vents calming. All signs pointed to him being on track.  
  
So Ambulon jumped when Whirl suddenly lurched forward.  
  
“I dunno what you’re doing, paintjob, but I don’t like it. I know I don’t have an IV in my arm and I’d bet my last credit that you do too. And you’re doing some freaky shit right now. Yeah, didn’t think I caught that did you? I did. I catch everything.” Whirl loomed, taking another step forward. “But I’ve had my fill of the brig, so you’re today’s  lucky winner. Walk away. You so much as look back,” claws snapped threatening, “and you’ll just be an ex instead of an ex con. You got it?”  
  
Startled, Ambulon agreed automatically. He backed up, optics wide-Whirl had noticed!? He couldn’t have-no one else ever had! Primus this meant he had to re-evaluate _everything,_ once he got away from Whirl.  
  
Ambulon backed up all the way around the corner, moving slowly, hands blatantly held in front of him. Whirl watched, vent harshly, field buzzing erratically. It was still steadier, stronger than it had been. More emotionally stable-Ambulon was certain he wasn’t going to kill himself or anyone else.  
  
And that was all he’d been down here to do right? He’d accomplished it. He could leave anyway. . Not because Whirl knew he had done something.  
  
Because Whirl knew something.  
  
“Primus.” Amublon swore softly, as he finally came around the corner and lost sight of Whirl. He was slagged-Whirl was never going to let that go.  
  
xXx  
  
Whirl watched Ambulon go, vents heaving. He felt calmer-far calmer than he should have felt. It had taken him a moment to figure it out-fragging Ambulon. Was there no mech left on this damn ship that didn’t have some sort of stupid surprise?  
  
Whirl knew himself. Knew how he should be reacting. It’d been on his mind mere minutes ago-a much easier and simpler solution to this problem. All his problems. Pity because life had finally started to be fun again, but it’d been his goal before he got on the ship anyway. He’d always known the _Lost Light_ was just a delay tactic.  
  
So what if the end was coming sooner than he planned? Whirl had still planned it.

  
A part of him, a vicious and wild piece that had seen him through his toughest times snarled in outrage. That’d he’d even consider ending it like this-not going out in a fight like a real Wrecker- ( _“But then, you aren’t one, are you?”_ An all too familiar voice in his head whispered. _“Not anymore. You don’t deserve to go out like they do.”)_ but alone by his own claws. It couldn’t be helped though. Not really.  
  
Except whatever the frag Ambulon did, it made him think of Rung.  
  
The doc had come through for him, yet again. He wasn’t so sure he liked that, that Rung knew how to read him just right. That Rung could just take a look and know. Know if he was off-kilter, or out of it. Know when he was lying.  
  
Know when he wasn’t feeling safe, and know how to fix it.

  
Whirl wasn’t used to feeling safe. Or cared for, or about. But Rung made it happen irregardless. Rung found something in Whirl, that Whirl didn’t even know he had himself. The orange mech pulled it out, time and time again and it made the world feel alright. Livable. Even if it was just for a little bit.

  
Whirl trusted him.

  
Whirl could count on his claws how many mechs he trusted, and he wouldn’t even need to use all of them.

  
All the negative thoughts, the building violence, the rage, everything, had slowed, been replaced. He knew it was Ambulon, felt it for the unnatural thing it was. It wasn’t the first time someone had taken a jaunt through his mind.  
  
He’d deal with that later though. Now instead, he was stuck in front of his habsuite, feeling weirdly retrospective on his relationship with one of his only friends, who was-  
  
_“No, he’s speaking with Rung. I came on my own.”_  
  
Who was talking to Ratchet.

  
‘Fuck.’’

  
Rung couldn’t know. Couldn’t know about his interface problems, his eating habits-any of it! Rung thought he was doing better-and he was, really. But Rung didn’t know how bad he was to begin with. Worst of all Rung would never look at him the same way. No, Whirl knew exactly what would happen-this would open pandora’s fucking box. It’d be question after question and there were things he’d never admitted, never said aloud and never planned too.  
  
Whirl was indestructible because he made himself out to be, because he refused to be taken advantage of again, because he had no problems taking himself down in the process. But he needed something left of his reputation, which meant Rung could never know.  
  
Frag confidentiality, and therapy and just fragging everything. Rung was his friend on top of all else. Whirl would lose that, was positive he’d lose it, if Rung knew. Because he’d be treated differently, he always was and he could not stand pity. Couldn’t stand anything.  
  
No. This couldn’t happen.  
  
He made two steps back towards medical when he winced, and froze. He couldn’t go back there. Ratchet would catch him, the fragger. Corner him, possibly using Rung. Stupid mech knew, knew Whirl liked the doc more than he let on.. He had been so fragging stupid lately why hadn’t he seen it? He was gonna get people killed-get Rung killed, if he kept being so fucking obvious. He had a target on his back. From both sides of the war, he wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d only picked up fans that were ‘Cons. Plenty of mechs had a grudge. He could not let them take it out on Rung.  
  
Couldn’t let them figure out just how much he liked the smaller bot. Respected him even.  
  
There was a chance Ratchet hadn’t shared, anyway. Whirl was supposed to wait for Rung to be escorted back to his habsuite, and Rung likely wanted to know what had happened. Ratchet was a medic, he’d probably kept it quiet. He had to right? Doctor patient confidentiality?  
  
Whirl snarled. No, he finally decided. It was too risky to go to medical, especially with Ratchet as fired up as he tended to get.  
  
He’d meet eyebrows at his habsuite. That’s where he was likely to go anyway. And then he’d know. What they were talking about-what he knew.  
  
_‘And because you’ll get to see him again.’_ Snarked his inner voice. Whirl ignored it-it wasn’t helping him, he didn’t want to hear it.  
  
  
  
  
xXx

  
  
::Ambulon.::

  
Ambulon forces his optics open, shuttering them. Hadn’t he just made it to his habsuite? His chronometer said he had-it’d only been a few minutes. He was off shift for several more hours, what could possibly warrant an interruption?  
  
The warden sat up, dragging himself out of his berth and to the door. Someone was chiming it, he realized belatedly, as well as comming him.  
  
::Ambulon.::  
  
He opened it to find the very grave face of Ratchet.

  
“We need to talk.” His CMO said.

  
Processor still pounding, Ambulon took in the look on Ratchet’s face. Dead set-he wasn’t going to get away with closing the door.  
  
Not that he could anyway, Ratchet had the override codes.  
  
“Alright.” Ambulon said after a minute.  
  
He didn’t have any other choice.  
  
xXx

  
Whirl was standing in front of his door.

  
Rung paused slightly-let the data run. It showed up in lines of information on his glasses. This was what they were for after all-collecting additional data and displaying it.

  
_Patient: 2929777_

  
_Patient Code: Red_

  
_Body temperature: above normal._

  
_High levels of stress indicated._

  
_Violent outburst likely. Caution needed._

  
The rest was a flow of patient information, past treatments, suggested treatments, and a number of other things that could be helpful. The lines scrolling up abruptly grew jagged, the text jumping around before rebooting. When it did, all it displayed was a single string of text, over and over.

  
_Error: EM-199pC7_

  
_Error: EM-199pC7_

  
_Error: EM-199-_

  
Rung slowly raised a hand, tapping the side of his glasses. This cleared the error-one he was beginning to have all too often. He’d only seen it a handful of times before.

  
He wasn’t happy to see it now.

  
He could ignore it. He’d been more certain before tonight, but he wasn’t giving up yet. Whirl needed him too much.

  
The copter had already seen him but Rung cleared his intake anyway. “Hello Whirl.” It was the same greeting he always used to start treatments. He hoped the familiarity of it gave the mech some peace.

  
“Eyebrows.” Whirl said, after a moment. His voice was scratchy, static undertones making it harsh.

  
_Recharge estimate: low_

  
His glasses provided him with exact times, but Rung dismissed it outright. He didn’t need to know the exact time to know Whirl needed to recharge immediately. The question was why Whirl was here-after what Ratchet had told him the last place Rung expected him to go was the office. Past patterns suggested Whirl would either avoid everyone, start another fight  or potentially hurt himself and Rung was expecting to have to track him down.

  
At the very least this saved him an hour of searching.

  
“Ambulon said you were talkin’ to Ratch. About me, was it?” Whirl asked.

  
Rung nodded. “Yes.” He said, slowly approaching. His habsuite was directly next to his office, and as such was far away from the majority of habsuites. There weren’t a lot of reasons for mechs to come down this way but he didn’t want to risk it anyway. Not with things running as poorly as they were. “We were discussing treatment options.” Rung was close enough know to be in striking range. His glasses flashed a warning at him to step back.  
  
A quick pulse in his spark made him stay.  
  
“What all did he tell you?” The static was still there, but so was a low rumbling. A warning, a quiet rev of Whirl’s engine. His field spiked with rising emotions-oddly flat in some places but coming back around for another go.  For a moment Rung was hit with the possibility of having to diffuse yet another outburst and his own emotions revolted at the idea. At having to remain calm, at having to treat this like an impartial party instead of the horror of a thing it was-  
  
_‘Keep it together.’_ He ordered himself harshly. _‘Whirl needs you to keep it together.’_  
  
Rung studied Whirl, keeping his face open. The glasses always helped with that-they made him look friendly. Calm. He didn’t want to do this in the hallway. He needed Whirl in a safer place-which meant his office.

  
“I’ll discuss it with you, if you want to come inside.” Rung gestured to his door.

  
“What all did he tell you?” Whirl repeated.

  
Rung opened  his mouth and found he couldn’t answer. “Whirl-”He tried, but the ‘Copter had read something in the hesitation.

  
“He told you all of it, didn’t he.” Whirl’s voice was horrified, his optic blowing wide before narrowing dangerously thin.

  
“Come in, we can discuss what I know.” Rung said, soothingly. He sent the command codes for the door, letting his office slide open.

  
Whirl just stared.

  
For a moment Rung was worried Whirl would refuse, would start this all over again, would put them back at square one-but the fight went out of him suddenly, shoulders slumping.

  
He scoffed once, raising his helm before he entered and Rung knew he’d won.

  
What he wasn’t sure, but something.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCK. THIS. CHAPTER. JUST. FUCK IT. 
> 
> So some small things, in sheer hatred of this current chapter, I went back and fixed a few of errors in prior chapters. Some of you awesome people pointed them out so thank yoooouu for that! It was all spelling, with the exception of a missed line that caused a small continuity error. It’s gone now, so we good. MASSIVE SHOUTOUT TO: Theshriekingsisterhood!!! (Interrobam on Ao3? I think? Yes?). They are the absolute best at encouraging my sad ass. Shower them with many things. 
> 
> Warnings: suicide ideation, mentions of forced sex, fuck or die stuff starts to come in here, Rung’s ethical code is starting to slip, annnnnd mentions of abuse of power/medical abuse. As always if you see something I missed or would like placed up here tell me and I’ll add it!

 

 

 

* * *

 

The door stood open in invitation. Whirl glared at it.  
  
This was a trap with Rung. You’d think the little mech couldn’t pull one off, but Whirl knew better. He’d been tricked before.

  
A small part of him, the one not snarling in rage and fury and hurt, had to admire Rung for his cunningness. The mech was smart.

  
_‘And loyal, and funny, and one of your only fragging friends.’_

  
Not anymore, not after this.

  
He scoffed and entered with his helm held high. Show no fear-even if he felt it.

  
Stupid as it was.  
  
_‘You fragged up buddy.’_ He told himself. Rung moved calmly behind him.  The therapist looked put together but the second the door closed that would change. It always did, when mechs found out the extent of his damage.  
  
Of what had been done to him.  
  
Rung wouldn’t know the details of course. He didn’t need to. He had his own razor sharp processor to figure things out with-and Ratchet had just given him one hell of a boost. Ratchet, who now knew mechs had been abusing Whirl on the ship, who knew they had starved him and left him to die. Ratchet, who knew now that his charge wasn’t being taken care of,  was well beyond dangerous levels, and that he was refusing to deal with it. Ratchet, who put together Primus knew what else from all those scans he’d done and had no doubt gone digging through Whirl’s medical file. He’d be pissed when he realized how much was missing, how much Whirl himself had managed to remove, but like Rung, he’d know who to talk to to fill in missing pieces.  
  
That knowledge, combined with what Rung already knew about him, and Whirl was capitol S Screwed.  
  
Rung was going to want _him_ to say all that, of course. He’d want to know why. Even if he knew why-and he would, he was a fragging therapist, he had probably been on his way to figuring it out before Ratchet had tipped him off-he’d want to hear it from Whirl.  
  
Whirl could tell him, or he could refuse. Let Rung come up with answers on his own.  
  
He didn’t know which one was worse.  
  
_‘The frag did you tell him so much?’_ The thought should have been angry-he should have been angry, but he found he couldn’t muster it up. Not at the levels of self hatred he wanted. He’d tried to be careful in therapy sessions, but Rung was too easy to talk to. Easier still, when they were out of therapy sessions. When Whirl was on one of his Rung related missions.  
  
_‘The missions. Fuck, those are over now.’_  
  
And he knew, beyond a doubt that Ambulon had messed with him when that didn’t stir up any further panic or upset emotion. It should have. He knew it should have. His self-dubbed Rung Missions had been one of the few things to keep him going for a while. Rung Missions, pissing off Psycho-lonus, making Tailgate smile, commenting loudly  through Rewind’s movie nights, making sure Trailbreaker didn’t get crated alone-or at least, if he did, activated his EM chip before he left the bar-  
  
Losing it-all of it should’ve hurt.  
  
It didn’t.  
  
After spending a few moments to ponder that, he found he was oddly thankful, even if it was a muted kind of relief. He’d let himself get too close to too many people. Let them affect him.  
  
This was better-to go out now. When they couldn’t be used against him. There were too many targets on too many mechs, too many reasons people might die for Whirl to add yet another one to the list.    
  
Taking in Rung’s carefully blank face, Whirl realized he’d been quiet for a long time. Damn, he was just making all kinds of mistakes today, wasn’t he?  
  
But then he was allowed, the world was falling down around him.  
  
“What’d Ratchet tell you?” He asked, because he needed to gauge his next moves. Ratchet wasn’t going to let this one go down easily-and Rung, with the knowledge he had, could help him trap Whirl.  
  
Whirl didn’t think he would-but then Rung didn’t give up either. He wouldn’t accept Whirl’s refusal. He almost regretted what his next actions were going to have to be, purely for that. Ratchet and Rung were good mechs. It wasn’t their fault he was ruined beyond their abilities to fix.  
  
_‘Don’t be stupid. Your death won’t hurt them. If anything it’ll help, since they won’t have to deal with your dumb aft every day.’_  
  
Rung was obviously considering what he was going to say-no doubt trying to figure out how best not to set Whirl off. “He has agreed to give you a month.”  
  
“To do what, exactly?” Whirl fired back. He wasn’t going to make this easy. If he had to be uncomfortable, so did everyone else. If he was going to lose all he had because of this, if this was going to end as he knew it would, then there  would be no misunderstandings as to what, _exactly,_ was going on.  
  
What he had suffered and why he was refusing.  
  
Rung stared at him for a moment, a ripple going through his EM field. He yanked it back before Whirl could pick up more than a disturbance-but not fast enough to hide it entirely. Normally Whirl would be curious, hyper-focusing on something such as that, a clear divergence in Rung’s usual therapy tactics, but he only paid attention to it now because it signaled something different.  
  
Different was bad. Different was _always_ bad.  
  
And emotions had nothing to do with ones own survival instincts.  
  
It was apparently Rung’s turn to get lost in thought and had he been more of himself, Whirl would’ve cursed the glasses. It wouldn’t be the first time-he’d long guessed Rung wore them to conceal his own emotions and reactions, if nothing else. Whirl was sure there was something else, Rung was too defensive of them, was constantly fiddling with buttons on the side of them the few times Whirl had caught him bare-faced, but making his face unreadable? Like it was currently doing, right now?  
  
Yeah. Major pain in the aft.  
  
“Well?” He demanded after a tense, silent moment. “You gonna tell me or you gonna make me guess?”  
  
And if the odd, ripples had been bad, the slow, gentle-x-vent was even worse. Because Whirl knew what that meant, with Rung. The smaller bot did it to keep himself calm, to steady himself from any emotion he deemed inappropriate for a therapist and if he was doing that, here and now...  
  
Whirl was more fragged than he had thought.  
  
  
xXx  
  
  
  
Ambulon had pushed himself past his own abilities. He was overstressed, exhausted, suffering a severe  processor ache and wanted more than anything for someone to just be with.  
  
That was the hardest part about the whole thing. He never knew if the craving for contact, for a connection with someone, was caused by the coding or was something he actually wanted.  
  
It was however, those reasons he would later blame for even letting Ratchet in.  
  
Sure, the CMO had override codes, but he rarely used them. The idea that Ratchet couldn’t simply wait knowing how bad off Ambulon was-at least recharge wise, was idiotic. All he’d had to say was ‘I’m  sorry, I’m going to pass out, let’s talk on my next shift” and he’d been in the clear.  
  
But no, Ratchet had to wake him up, and Ambulon had blurrily decided to let him in.  
  
Thinking on it, that had probably been the medic’s plan to being with.  
  
_‘Stupid.’_ He thought now, staring across the room at his CMO. _‘You fell right for it.’_  
  
Not that putting it off would have helped any. He’d promised an answer. The Hatchet was coming to collect.  
  
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been acting.” Ratchet began, because as Whirl had pointed out earlier, he knew when to go for the throat. “I’ve been letting this slide for a while, because it didn’t look like it was hurting you badly enough for me to step in right away, and I knew I needed to gain your trust before I approached whatever it is that’s going on. But I think today proved that I’ve waited too long.”  
  
Ambulon opened his mouth to protest but Ratchet glared him down and Ambulon wisely stayed silent.  
  
“You promised me an explanation. I trusted you to be provide it. So provide it.” Ratchet’s voice was the kind he used on unruly patients, a command lacing his words that would accept answers and nothing else.  
  
Ambulon grimaced.  
  
_‘Idiot. You knew this was coming. You knew the moment you told him what you could do, the moment you decided to clear the way for Whirl and Rung. You damned yourself. ’_  
  
Not that that knowledge made any of this easier.  
  
“It’s not something you can fix.” He hedged instead. “And I’m managing it just fine. It’s just been a few-exceptional days.”  
  
“Really.” Ratchet said, voice laced with sarcasm. Ambulon ignored it.  
  
“I have it under control.” He said, refusing to rise to Ratchet’s bait.  
  
Ratchet just stared at him. After a moment, his boss rolled his optics and went to fetch a chair. Ambulon watched him, as he dragged it over to wear Ambulon had seated himself back on the edge of his berth- _‘Frag-when did I sit down?’-_ and dropped into it.  
  
“You said, this was a result of the gestalt trials. This-ability.” He started, as though they’d been talking about it all along instead of dodging Amublon’s poor attempts to avoid it entirely.  
  
The skepticism was staggering, and if Ambulon didn’t know better, he’d try to play this whole thing  off as a processor problem. A mental issue, a glitch or some kind of elaborate lie. He was overtired, he wasn’t thinking straight-something. But all of those were things that were far quicker to get him booted from the medbay and Ratchet was going to comb through his coding no matter what excuse he gave him.  
  
There was no point in lying. No point in even trying.  
  
He didn’t want to talk about it.  
  
_‘You don’t have to, idiot.’_  
  
Right. Of course not-because he was a medic, and a medic knew better than anyone how to compile a patient file.  
  
Something he would have thought of much sooner had he been capable of a higher thought processes and not running on fumes.  
  
Ambulon collected everything he had on his...condition, and sent it over the comms in a neat little packet.  “Here.” He said, after sending it on its way. Ratchet eyed him, no doubt trying to look for some trickery (or perhaps, gauge of Ambulon’s remaining sanity.) but accepted the packet anyway.  
  
The medical warden stared at his lab tiredly as his boss reviewed it.  
  
“Huh.” Was all he got.  It was however, followed by squinted optics and a steady; “Are you capable of using the coding now?”  
  
_‘Yes, always.’_  
  
“No.” Ambulon lied.  
  
Ratchet’s already grumpy stare began a slow-morph back  into a full blown glare and Ambulon sighed, knowing he was caught out. “Yes.” He corrected.  
  
“Then try it on me.”  
  
“What?” Ambulon said startled and looking at his boss like he’d lost his processor. Who knew, maybe he finally  had.  
  
Maybe Ambulon had and this was all a horrible, horrible, hallucination. Maybe he was dead.  
  
One could always hope, right?  
  
“Try it on me. Coding like that, even in virus form, shouldn’t be able to fully affect a mech like you seem to think it’s capable of doing. And even less, for a medic. Certainly, we are receptive to emotional tampering because we have things such as heat coding that allow us to be effected with when activated, and the code may be piggybacking on them, but it cannot overtake a mech. So I want you to try it out, on me.”  
  
“It doesn’t-that’s not how it works.” Ambulon protested. “It’s not overtaking a mech, it’s more like  powerful suggestions-”  
  
“Then suggest it on me, I want to feel it.”  Ratchet leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.  
  
“I won’t be able to affect much, I’ve done too much with it today already-I’m tired.” Not to mention he really, really didn’t want to do it. The sheer added stress of it aside, Ratchet was his CMO. A CMO he actually respected, which was a rare feeling for Ambulon to have about anyone.  
  
And the coding liked him for it. It liked him a lot.  
  
 “I can fix tired. What I need to see is this. Now show me.”  Ratchet said, the warning tone back  
  
“I don’t know if I can stop it once I start.” Ambulon admitted, voice smaller. Quieter. “Ratchet I don’t want-I can’t force this on you. On anyone.”  
  
“Kid,” The tone was still there, a symbol of Ratchet’s refusal to believe in something like this, in something that could force mechs to bond unwillingly, but underneath it was a request-that Ambulon believe in him.  “trust me. That won’t happen. I know you're exhausted. We’ll deal with that in a moment. I don’t want you to push it too hard, but to let the coding out a little. I can’t help you if I can’t see it.” His field pulsed with reassurance-and Ambulon knew he would bow to it. He always did.  
  
It was what made Ratchet dangerous.  
  
“And if I can’t stop it?” He asked, still hesitant. Ratchet needed to understand how dangerous this could be, before he did it. It was the only way he’d be able to let the coding out.  The only way he could forgive himself if something did go wrong-not that he would. But at least it was something.  
  
He looked into his CMO’s optics for some understanding.  
  
He got a flat stare and a deadpanned “Then I’ll knock you out.” instead.  
  
_‘Typical.’_  
  
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” This was as good as this was going to get-as close as Ratchet would get to heading his warnings. With a small rub to his helm, Ambulon complied.  
  
xXx  
  
It had been a long day.  
  
It was only getting longer.  
  
Behind his glasses, Rung closed his optics and vented hard. Whirl would notice it no doubt, but it would be better than losing it in front of him.  
  
_‘Get yourself under control.’_   He had known this wasn’t going to be easy, had known Whirl had every right to make it difficult. The knowledge didn’t help him any. He calmed his field, cleared it of his own frustrations, of everything that wasn’t helpful right now. His patients relied on his field. He needed it to be calm.  
  
So he calmed it.  
  
When he was sure he had himself under control, Rung let it flow back out.  
  
“Ratchet has sent me your full medical files.” He said, because he had to start somewhere.  
  
Silence.  
  
Rung  had always hated this part, telling survivors. They knew their self care had failed. They knew it would eventually catch up to them-though secretly he was impressed that Whirl had managed to go for so long. There was no point in dragging this out any longer either, spitting it out was  going to be the best thing to do. Less painful that way. He took another vent, and started; “I can understand why you would want to avoid using your interface equipment. Ratchet does not and unfortunately in this case, Ratchet is correct. Unused equipment leads to further instability such as-”  
  
“Violent mood swings, nanite failures, and a myriad of other shit that means I’m just shooting myself in the pedes.” Whirl finished, voice laced with sarcasm and muted hate. “I’m aware.”  
  
That part of his script ripped away ( _did you expect any less from Whirl?_ ) and Rung jumped right too the next piece.  
  
“Considering the state of your coding, Ratchet’s professional opinion is that you have slightly more than a  month to fix it. Any longer than that, and he does not believe your systems will survive the strain.” It wasn’t a pleasant way to die. It was one that was easy to prevent though-at least, easy from an outsiders perspective.  
  
It could be nothing but torture for Whirl. Rung wondered if the copter had any positive sexual experience to tap into, to help in any way, and filed the thought away for later. Now wasn’t the time to bring it up.  
  
Just like it wasn’t the time to bring up his _incredibly_ patchy medical files.  
  
“And just how,” Whirl tried to sneer, really he did, “am I supposed to just “fix it?”  
  
“You have options.”  
  
Whirl snorted.  
  
Rung continued anyway. “There are a few options available to you, outside of interfacing with another mech.” It was important to start with them, even if Rung didn’t think Whirl would go for any of them. He had to try. “Self servicing is the most obvious choice for many people in your position.”  
  
Whirl gave  him a disbelieving stare, before slowly raising a claw. “You serious, eyebrows?”  
  
“There are ways to get around using hands.”  
  
“Nothing is ever going into my valve. Never again.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
It’s the calmness in his tone that eased Whirl back.  
  
Rung ignored his movements, pretended the ‘copter’s armor hadn’t leaned forward threateningly, claws nearly denting the berth he sat on. “The next choice is to have Ratchet put you under and medically stimulate it.”  
  
“No!” The venom there is surprising to both of them-Whirl hadn’t even felt it hit him. Rung clearly hadn’t anticipated it either, the both of them staring at the other in a stunned sort of silence.  
  
The anger abruptly vanished, as though it had never existed and it was the oddest thing because Whirl knew his emotions were being repressed. Was supposed to be repressed. Not jerky and jumbled, and leaving as fast as it appeared.  
  
_‘Clearly Paintjob wasn’t anticipating you to get riled up again right after he left.’_ Whirl thought. Perhaps the medic hadn’t properly finished, or hadn’t anticipated how strong Whirl’s emotions were, considering they kept coming back.  
  
Especially when it came to this topic.  
  
“No.” Whirl repeated, suddenly calm and completely devoid of emotion. “I will not be going under to let a mech use me as he pleases. I’ve been there too and I won’t be going there again. Fragger would probably let his freakshow staff watch.”  
  
“Ratchet would never rebuke Doctor patient confidentially like that Whirl, it’s completely against the oath-”  
  
“The same one all the others took? Yeah. Some oath.”  
  
Rung x-vented, trying to keep a handle on himself.  “Without those options, then all that’s left is  interfacing with another mech. I would suggest to find a mech on the ship you trust.”  
  
Whirl just laughed. It was  forced and high, meant to disturb and disarm.  
  
Rung struggled hard upon hearing it, to keep his composure, because yeah. It’d been idiotic to offer.  
  
But it was the best he could do.  
  
“Those are the only options I can give you.” Rung said quietly. “I had to fight Ratchet just to give you a month to decide on your own. Coding that has been left alone for that long has a high chance of being fatal if not cared for.”  
  
“Yeah?” Whirl all but challenged.  “Then let it be fatal.” He  was expecting a rebuttal, but he wasn't expecting Rung’s field-calm and steady as ever-to sudden suck back in again, out of reach.  
  
“Is that what you want?”  Rung sounded almost strangled, but Whirl can’t tell. Not really, without Rung’s  field-his glasses hide too much.  
  
“Does what I want matter? Don’t answer that-I know it doesn’t.” Whirl shook his helm. He shouldn’t have even asked. It had never mattered what he wanted. Whatever-if anything-Rung had felt towards him, anything positive would be destroyed by this conversation. It always was. He went from the jolly, trigger happy lunatic, to a sad, lunatic who needed help, not friends. Not anything.  
  
Except maybe to be put down.  
  
_‘Should have let them do it.’_ Whirl thought, thinking back to a few who’d suggested it, thinking it kinder. Thinking he was too fragged up to even understand them. _‘It would have been nicer.’_  
  
Too bad the Autobots couldn’t all run on soft sparked, moral aftheads. They had needed bots like Whirl, to do the dirty work needed to be done. But there wasn’t much of that anymore. His usefulness had just run out.  
  
“Of course it does-!” That time Rung knew  he hadn’t  kept the emotion out of his voice. Whirl’s already talking though, not paying attention.  
  
“Nah, Eyebrows. I know how this game is played. No one likes me, but at the end of the day, that Autobot code most of you take to spark won’t let you do what should be done. Instead I get dragged off to medical, knocked out and _dealt with.”_  
  
The other reason he’d trashed all his old medical files.  
  
That horror had ended when he’d joined the Wreckers. No one would touch him without his consent. Not ever again.  
  
“Has that happened before?” Rung had gone, absolutely still and Whirl regretted even mentioning it.  
  
_‘He’d have never known that, but noooo, you had to say something.’_  
  
Whirl let his silence-and field-answer that question, and for the first time in a millennia Rung realized he couldn’t do this. Couldn’t remain impartial, not here, not anymore. His spark thrummed painfully, angry at that revelation and the feeling of helplessness, of being unable to change things long past. It wasn’t an unfamiliar one, simply a feeling Rung had always tried to repress. It burned now, as it tore its way through.  
  
Whirl had been mistreated. Abused, reformatted, spat on and judged unworthy. He had been punished for things beyond his control, for attempting his best until his best was a screwed up mess of a thing.  
  
Yet, he never stopped. Deep down, his moral definitions of right and wrong never changed, no matter how he went about on the surface. Rung knew, in the same way he knew Whirl had been in danger, in the same way he knew he was safe around the ‘Copter, what he had to do.  
  
It wasn’t the first time he had broken his oath. He hoped, however, that it would be the last.  
  
_‘It’s an emergency._ ’ He told himself firmly, despite the ever circling thoughts of what had happened last time that haunted him. His glasses, helpful little things they were began to flash an error, and Rung took them off before he even caught the first few lines of code. If he saw the full thing, he wouldn’t be able to do it.  
  
And he needed to. His spark was pulsing, pounding, and he needed to share, if only to soothe it.  
  
It was the right thing to do.  
  
“You asked me if I had any ‘good’ stories once.” He said abruptly.  It was non-sequential, and he didn’t care. It’d make sense in a minute. “Stories that had ‘life’ in them, if I recall your exact wording.” He said it slowly, hands bringing his glasses down to his lap. He raised his head, to look at Whirl with optics the world rarely saw. Optics that never saw the inside of a therapy session, certainly.  
  
_‘Is this what that is?’ It certainly doesn’t feel like one, and you definitely aren’t doing a good job of making it one.’_  
  
It was odd, to see the ‘Copter without all the patient information surrounding him. It should have felt wrong, his glasses helped remind him of why he had to remain impartial, of what job he did, but it didn’t. Instead it felt oddly freeing. Made speaking easier.  
  
Whirl looked a little lost at the abrupt transition, but was game to snark at it anyway. “So?”  
  
“I’m going to tell you one.”  
  
“How’s that supposed to help?” Whirl was trying. Oh, was he trying, to be snarky and sarcastic. It rang hollow.  
  
“Whirl.” Rung said, odd tone of his own ringing through his voice,  “Please.”  
  
Whirl had never seen Rung get upset, not when he’d been facing down Fort Max, not when he’d been called the wrong name multiple times, not even when Rodimus had drunkenly tried to flirt with him as a joke. But more than that, he had never heard the tone of voice Rung had just used-weary, sad, _defeated_ , -frag he couldn’t even identify everything in it.  
  
“Alright.” He said, with an equally funny note in his vocalizer. His emotions rolled, the weird mix of not-quite-there, under the surface feeling making his tank shudder. He ignored it, focused on his  _(still?)_ friend.  
  
If Rung wanted to talk, he’d listen.  
  
If only so he never had to hear that tone of voice again.  
  
Rung took a long x-vent, paused, and took another. His fingers played with the edges of his glasses, a nervous tick he knew gave him away, but he couldn’t stop. Not when even considering telling Whirl of all people this. He tried to keep his gaze even on Whirl, tried not to hide the pain that lit them up no matter how often he’d told himself he’d forgiven his own aggressors.  
  
Whirl needed to see it. Needed to read him properly. Needed to know this was real.  
  
“This is difficult for me, I...I have not told anyone this.” Had never wanted to, in fact. But desperate times…  
  
And he knew. The pull in his spark knew, that this would help.  
  
So he spoke.  
  
“You are aware of my alt mode?” Rung asked, knowing the answer.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“And working for the Senate as you did, I am sure you know very well how the Functionalists took such things as ones purpose in life, personally.” He waited for Whirl to acknowledge  that with a nod before he continued. “My alt mode had no purpose. This ah, bothered them. Greatly. So when they could not find one, they decided to give me one.”  
  
A well known fact, after the alt-mode fiasco Swerve and Rewind had pulled. He’d had to politely fend off a number of jokes about how he made an excellent bat for weeks afterwards, from mechs he had seen all of twice. There had been a number of snickers about what his classification was.  
  
“Officially, I am an ornament.” Rung took a deep vent, servo’s tightening around his glasses.  This was the hard part. A part he had never shared, had hoped to bury. But he knew better. You couldn’t bury things like this. They’d always return.  Eat you alive until you addressed them.  
  
It was long overdue, for this particular horror to see the light.  
  
“Unofficially,” Rung paused, then forced himself on. Whirl needed to know this. To know he wasn’t alone. “I was classified as a toy. “ He caught Whirl’s optic,  trying to convey what he couldn’t say. The things he still couldn’t quite speak of, not yet. “ And they used me as one.”  
  
You could still see it on his old license, in fact. All you needed was a blacklight and the word ‘toy’ would shine back at you, in letters large enough to block out the word ‘ornament.’  
  
“Rung.” And how odd it was, to hear his real name so many times in a night. Particularly from Whirl, who called him about everything but his name. Even odder was the soft tone it was spoken in.  
  
Rung tried not to take note of it-if he analyzed it, thought about it, he wouldn’t be able to continue. “I doubt it was nearly as bad as what has been done to you. It certainly didn’t last as long-I was freed when Starscream took down their tower and I estimate I only lost a decade or so under their control.”  
  
A decade had been enough. Whirl’s file, if one read between the lines and knew where to look, indicated he’d suffered centuries.  
  
_Centuries._  
  
Rung couldn’t even imagine.  
  
“Rung.” Whirl said again, but he was staring straight through him, determined to make his point before he lost his nerve entirely.  
  
“But it is enough, to empathize with you. I was taken so suddenly, without any warning or pretext, people thought I had died. Been executed perhaps, for some unknown crime. The Senate was grabbing people left and right back then, and no one wanted to look too closely for fear of it happening to them.” Whirl knew of course, because he’d been one they’d grabbed. “But there were people, people outside the Senate, who knew. The Functionalists were many, had many friends, and many of those friends had people with them. Bodyguards. Assistants. Many apologized,” And how he’d hated that, their empty hollow words spoken only to make themselves feel better, “But none interfered. I knew that many were just as trapped as I was. That they had recourse. But emotions do not always obey logic. it took me a long time to come to terms with it. To understand.  And in that way, Whirl, you and I are more alike than you think.”  
  
Far more, no matter how he tried. Whirl was the one person he tried so hard to have nothing in common with. The one person he kept struggling to keep away, to keep from becoming too personal.  
  
To keep from becoming meaningful, to him.  
  
He doubted Whirl had known, until now, just how much they shared in common.  
  
The Copter was looking at him, frozen, optic wide and unfocused. Unable to handle the lack of response, Rung continued.  
  
“My experiences were vastly different than  yours and it may be unfair of me to compare them, but I wished to share anyway-because I wanted you to know I would never allow anything to happen to you without your consent, Whirl. I made a promise, when I escaped, to stop what I could. To help as many people as I could. If I have to fight Primus himself to do it, I will not let anything happen to you that you don’t want to.” He frowned suddenly-because Whirl had begun to shake.  
  
“Whirl?” He asked, and that seemed to snap the rotary out of it. He leapt up as though electrocuted, armor flared out and weapons making a noise that would have been concerning if Rung didn’t know it meant they were turning on and off rapidly.  
  
“Whirl-” Rung half rose in his chair, concerned, but he wasn’t fast enough. Whirl had already spun, ran to the door.  
  
“I-I have to, I have to go.” He said as he practically tore through it.  
  
Rung stared after him, shock rolling through him. That had been-well not what he had expected, but also fast. Faster than he could really process.  It took him a moment to calm himself, to wonder whether he should give chase-but his spark pulsed reassuringly and Rung sank back down into his chair.  
  
Apparently, this had been the intended outcome.  
  
He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I don't usually do these at the end, but I wanted to point out that Ambulon’s effects, combined with exhaustion ( Rung and Whirl have been up essentially all night. At the time of this chapter its like the Cybertron equivalent of four am) and Whirl's recent injuries are the entire reason he walks through Rung's door, and talks as he does. Had none of those three happened (with emphasis on Ambulon's meddling) He would have bolted from Rung when he realized Rung had spoken with Ratchet and knew enough to start piecing things together. Ambulon's effects are also going in and out-as well as dealing Whirl some side effects that will be a bit more obvious later. Ambulon has never effected someones mood who whipped around and got riled up immediately after, isn't aware of his own side effects. As a result, Whirl's moods are a little all over the place. Wasn't sure how well I conveyed that. 
> 
> Also, whats a Rung Mission? We'll find out! ; )


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the one following it are my totes fav chapters. Though it was a giant pain to connect scenes, I really need to stop jumping all over the place when I write. I literally had to drunk-write myself out of it. BTW, I suppose I should mention that Ambulon's half of this fic can be considered as a prelude to a relationship(s), or not. Its your preference. 
> 
> Warnings!: Threats/mentions of suicide, Whirl playing with a gun in a not so fun manner, mentions of past abuse, mentions of fighting, having a really poor view of yourself (that’s a thing, right?) as well as a poor self view of being a survivor (specifically of rape; also mentions of rape), Whirl being Whirl, and finally, cuteness overload. If there’s anything else you’d like me to add, throw me a message and I’ll put it up here!

* * *

 

 

Whirl was furious. Then he felt nothing at all, an abrupt drop in emotions. Which lasted for all of a click, as it came right back, a  pounding mix of anger, concern, and fear rushing up his intake. The changes were alarming, making his tank clench and his processor spin. He couldn’t fragging _think_ with it all!

He didn’t know how he made it to his habsuit, didn’t have a recollection  of getting there. He pressed his helm to the wall next to his closed door in an effort to calm himself, venting harshly.

Rung hadn’t chased him.

Thank Primus above, because he would not have been able to handle it if he had.

_‘’I was classified as a toy. And they used me as one.’_

No, _no, no, no!_

His emotions were everywhere and then nowhere. Errors rolled down Whirl’s HUD. Or rather appeared too, because he was the one moving. He ended up sprawled out on the floor, helm still pressed hard to the wall, uncaring. He hadn’t recharged in two days, his wrists ached from their fresh welds, and his processor _burned._

They’d tried to destroy Rung.

Warnings began shrieking at him-he was overheating, over-stressing himself and unable to regulate it. His guns onlined and his rotors spun, taking themselves to maximum until both abruptly cut off.  

He didn’t care.

He couldn’t handle this.

When blackness finally overtook him he welcomed it with open arms, because he didn’t want this. He didn’t want to think, or feel, or anything.

He didn’t want to _be._

 

xXx

 

The coding was happy.

Ambulon was frowning before he was even fully online-the coding was _never_ happy. Sated surely, but humming like it was? With contentment?

Something was wrong.

He onlined his optics, frown deepening when  white and red armor filled his vision. He blinked slowly, letting his HUD come up after his visual feed, the programming running coding and commands. It took him a moment, longer than he would like to admit, for him to realize his head was sideways. And that he was laying on something. At least his head was, anyway. And his main  medical port was plugged into.

Slowly, he rolled.

His optics roamed up a broad chest, and a helm blocked by the datapad being held in one hand. The other was stroking Ambulon’s helm in a way that felt _way too nice,_ and-and-

 _‘Primus frag it all, that’s_ _Ratchet!’_

It hit him in a rush. All the memories of last night. Of what he’d done, of who knew what he could do, came at him. His vocalizer onlined by itself, a whine escaping as panic hit him. Had they bonded? Were they gestalt now? It didn’t feel like it but coding was _happy--_!

“Oh good you’re up.” Ratchet was looking at him now. Ambulon almost couldn’t face him, but forced himself to keep still. To keep looking.

“Did we--” He  tried to force it out, needed to know. “Are we--?”

Ratchet’s helm tilted ever so slightly. “Can’t you tell?”

“I-I-” Fear was eating him alive and he couldn’t get the words out. Ratchet seemed to sense this-or more likely, picked it up from his field, Ambulon realized with sudden embarrassment that his field was practically wrapped around Ratchet and he hadn’t even noticed.

“Nothing happened.” Ratchet’s voice softened, his stare gentling. “I told you--coding can’t force itself to attach like that without being given permission. The way it went about it was certainly interesting though--it has quite a few tricks it tried to pull to get that permission. Rather persistent bugger.” His fingers never stopped stroking Ambulon’s helm, his EM field soothing. Ambulon realized with a start that he’d never even tried to get up-he was still sprawled firmly on the couch-and on Ratchet’s lap. His faceplates would have heated at that-he’d always been more of a private mech-but he was just too damn relieved to care.

Ratchet was okay. He hadn’t forced him into a gestalt. His coding hadn’t forced _anything._

Realizing that Ambulon wasn’t going to say anything else, Ratchet put the datapad down and continued. “I need to apologize, kid.” The gruffness in his voice sounded odd with it as soft as it was. “You passed out shortly after letting the coding out. You asked me to back off, I pushed you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for that.”

“That’s- alright.” His HUD informed him it was near-morning. He was briefly blown away by the fact that Ratchet had stayed the whole night. Hadn’t tried to wake him up, hadn’t left him when he was unable to-just. Stayed.  Ambulon went to raise a hand to his face and felt a wire pull on his wrist. He looked down at it, surprised.

RIght.

Ratchet was plugged into him.

“Did you figure anything out about the coding?” He asked, because it was obvious to him now that’s what Ratchet had been doing. Studying the coding. Had he been doing that all night? Is that why he hadn’t left? Ambulon’s optics traced the wire to the datapad his boss had held.

“Lot’s.” Ratchet’s voice had gone back to normal-Ambulon was glad for it.  “I’m going to need to study this for a while. It’s intricate, how it works. Which reminds me.” He looked back down, making sure to catch Ambulon’s optics. “I’ve pulled you off the duty roster for the next week. And I’ve pulled myself off for today as well, so I don’t want to hear it.”

“You pulled yourself off?”

“Yes. I’ll be spending the day in here, with you, studying this. I’ve gotten rather far in mapping the source coding, but I want to try a few more things with it after I’ve finished and that might take a few hours.”

“Is-is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Just lay there. Take a nap kid-your coding is responding better being this close to someone anyway, I think it's got a proximity sensor of some sort going on. It looks to be letting you rest more, so rest.”

“On you?” He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but he’d been startled.

Ratchet’s field flashed amusement. “Yeah on me. Best place for all the wires.”

“My paint will flake all over you.” Ambulon warned, more because he felt he had too than anything else.

“So? I don’t care.”

Well that settled that. The coding was happy, and he was sleepy so with an internal shrug, Ambulon went with it. He settled back in, closed his optics and let his boss work, oddly soothed by the whole thing.

If nothing else, if felt good to feel cared for. Even if it was temporary.

 

xXx

 

Whirl had a gun.

He had several, in fact, spread out on his recharge slab. They had been organized by size, but he had just finished re-doing it by power level.

He picked one up, a hefty long thing that looked more like a cannon than anything else. It was labeled ‘Party Starter’ and was an absolute Brainstorm classic.

It’d take the top of his body off, if he aimed it right.

 _‘ If I have to fight Primus himself to do it, I will not let anything happen to you that you don’t want to.’_ Rung’s voice rang through his processor, unbidden and Whirl dropped the gun like it had caught fire. He vented harshly, looking away.

This wasn’t working.

He wasn’t able to recharge. Or rather couldn’t. Because when he did, all he saw-all he heard, was the things they might’ve done to Rung. Or things that had happened to Whirl, but changed, so they happened to the therapist instead.

Whirl couldn’t take it.

So he’d refused to recharge, had been actively trying to avoid it (and everyone else) for the last three days. Rung had commed him once, a simple message that asked how he was doing and to see him when he was ready. Whirl had barely managed to get through reading it.

He was angry. So, so  angry.

_Frag it all this isn’t fair!_

He’d tried so damn hard. He thought he’d done something good for once. Something worthwhile.

He should have known better, really. The only thing he was good for was violence.

_‘You tried though, didn’t you? You tried to make it better.’_

Except he didn’t, because he didn’t know how bad things were to begin with!

And wasn’t that just ironic? That he had withheld information from Rung, despite the therapist making a point to state that he shouldn’t do that, that he couldn’t help Whirl fully if he had, and here Rung was withholding this the entire time.

Withholding on everyone apparently. Because Ratchet hadn’t known. He wouldn’t have asked Skids and started the whole mess with the Rung Missions if he had.

For a minute Whirl froze, playing out the possibility that Ratchet had known all along. That maybe he had gone to Skids because of that, because frag, who knew, Rung felt safer with him or some slag. They had shared that whole spark-eater incident after all.

Worried, and anxious, and generally miserable, Whirl’s processor pulled the memories up. He didn’t fight them like he did in his dreams. Instead Whirl focused on it, put himself back there, at the very beginning, ready to pour over everything because what if he had misread things?

What if he had missed something?

What if he had made things worse?

 _‘I don’t know why you’re surprised,’_ that dark voice snarked. ‘ _Fraggin’ up is  what you’re best at after all.’_

Whirl ignore them even as he thought them. The memories were more important.

Knowing was more important.

xXx

 

 _Ventilation shafts weren’t built for large, spindly helicopters. Whirl made it work though, and he cackled madly to himself as he wiggled his way through. His_ claws and the general shape of his legs made this very, very difficult, but it would be worth it, absolutely worth it, just to pull off the prank he’d intended.

Unfortunately just because he could get through the shafts didn’t mean he could do it unnoticed. The clanking and clamoring was loud enough to remind him of those Earth cartoons he watched sometimes. Where someone would fall down and create little person-shaped indents in the vents as they did so. Loud  bangs galore.

Getting caught would ruin his plans-and he was too fragging close to let that happen. So when he heard voices-specifically one he identified as the Chief Medical Officer’s, he froze.

They were just out of audio range to make out what was being said, but that tone of grumpy could only belong to the medic. Whirl dramatically slowed his movements, creeping forward in a manner that would have most other bots rolling their optics and Tailgate giggling.

Carefully, Whirl moved past the offending vent,  the one that might give him away, when Ratchet said Rung’s name, loud enough to be heard.

Whirl paused, one claw in the air, before just as dramatically moving backwards, positioning himself over the vent. He pressed his helm down, against the slates, narrowing his optic slightly so he could see through it.

“I’ll get to it then. I’m here to ask a favor of you.” Ratchet finished.

“How does that involve Rung?”

It took Whirl’s optic a minute to focus, but when it did it showed a somewhat confounded looking Skids staring down Ratchet.

“Because it’s about him.”

Skids just waited. Ratchet’s arms were crossed, and the two stared at each other for a moment before Ratchet sighed. “Surely you’ve noticed how he isolates himself.”

“Yeah?” Skids sounded confused, but then he always sounded confused to Whirl.

“It isn’t healthy, Skids. We are a social species. We aren’t meant to be alone like that. Locked away like that.”

“He sees people all the time though.”

“No,” Ratchet corrected, as patient as he was ever going to sound. “He works all the time. He doesn’t see anyone after work hours and I can  tell you now he’s not fully himself when he’s working. He needs someone to pull him out. Get him to relax and let go outside of work.”

“If you know him so well, why don’t you do it?” Skids fired back.

“Can’t. I have too much time on my hands with you fraggers blowing yourselves up every five minutes. You on the other hand,” One hand flicked out, finger pointed, “have plenty of free time.”

SKids looked at Ratchet’s extended finger, thinking.

“Rung doesn’t go out a lot because he believes it clashes with the oath he took as a therapist.” He said finally. It sounded like an excuse to Whirl, a way to get out of helping. His optic narrowed at the very thought.

Ratchet rolled his optics. One would think at Skids, but Whirl knew better. No doc bot was rolling it at the out of date doctor's oath Rung no doubt thought he was bound too.

“It doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, Rung is socially isolating himself, and it's not doing him any good. As much as he protests it, he can’t properly help people when he himself is depressed and lonely. And currently he’s exhibiting signs of both.”

Depressed? Lonely? Whirl and Skids both blinked at that, both thinking back to how Rung, seemingly _always happy_ Rung, well, wasn’t.

Skids mulled it over. “So you’re asking me to, what, be friends with him?”

“I’m asking you to pull him out of his isolation. I don’t care if you become friends with him as long as he gets out more. Take him to the bar, introduce him to others, outside of a work context.” Which was very typical Ratchet. Wanted the results and got tired of waiting for them to magically show up without aid. 

They continued talking, Skids protesting that Rung wouldn’t approve due to his moral conflicts and Ratchet steamrolling over them. Whirl stopped listening, had stopped listening, he was so lost in thought. He had never thought about it like that-thought about Rung like that. He’d known the therapist kept to himself, but Whirl knew a lot of bots like that. He’d thought it’d been Rung’s personal choice.

_‘Ugh, Ratch, why even bother giving that mission to Skids? That idiot won’t do anything-he’ll let Rung use his little therapist-voodoo skills on him and they’ll never get past square one.’_

Because what was it that Rung was always saying? He was a therapist first and everything else second?

Yeah.

What a load of slag that was.

Someone had to have beaten that into him-especially if he was damaging himself emotionally to do it. Whirl briefly wondered who it was, before deciding he didn’t care. If they were still alive he could kill them later--after he fixed Rung.

Ratchet was right after all. Rung was a priority.

Prank completely forgotten, Whirl crawled his way to the nearest place he could exit, processor lost in thought.

Skids was a nice guy. A great fighter and a decent opponent, but he wasn’t the aft that Rung was going to need. No, Rung was going to need someone to physically drag him into parties, trick him into going into events. Forcibly introduce him to mechs, not as a therapist but as a friend. Skids was too fragging polite to navigate the minefield of Rung’s gentle but firm refusals.

Whirl, on the other hand, was specially suited to ignoring it completely.

He turned suddenly, making his way to the bar. There was a calendar of events there, that Swerve proudly updated, and Whirl found himself in need of stealing it as he made the perfect plans.

He’d settle for nothing less.

 

xXx

 

The memory gave way to present thought, Whirl trying to frame it with what he knew now. With that Rung had told him.

_“ I was taken so suddenly, without any warning or pretext, people thought I had died. Been executed perhaps, for some unknown crime. “_

Ratchet had said Rung was exhibiting signs of depression, of loneliness and yes, Whirl decided, his memories seemed to indicate that Ratchet didn’t know about Rung’s own past. Because you didn’t shove survivors at random people and tell them to just “ help pull them out of it.” You didn’t use socializing as a tactic to fix things. Whirl knew, because he knew exactly what people did try for survivors. Or at least, he knew what people had tried on him.

This entire time Whirl had thought Rung had lost his friends. People who were dead, or simply no longer in communication, or mechs who had refused to Join the Lost Light. Something un-dramatic and common. _Maybe_ a Mean Girls esque upbringing or something (because what little he knew of Cybertronian academics suggested it was completely comparable to the human teenage movie.) Rung wasn’t publishing anymore after all, had claimed once he was no longer welcome in the ‘academic world’ not that Whirl believed one still existed. Whatever this hang up on morals and friends and whatever was, it was something that made him hesitant to reach out to others surely, but wasn’t actually _damaging_. Not in the way Whirl defined the word. This was  something that was easy to fix.

Easy enough that _he_ could fix it.

If he had known the truth, if, if it had been apparent to him from the beginning-( ‘ _And why wasn’t it?’_ that poisonous voice whispered. _‘You should know the signs. You spent all this time looking after Rung and you couldn’t even see something so obvious?’_ ) he would have--would have…

 _‘You would have what?_ ; The voice taunted. _‘Handled things differently? Offered a shoulder for him to cry on? Nothing you can do could possibly heal him.’_

Except Rung didn’t act like he needed to be healed. It was the opposite in fact; he sought out _others_ to heal. Had done so to a point where he’d gone full circle, to harming himself by helping others out. To the point where Whirl felt comfortable stepping in.

Of course he’d done more than that. And he’d been damn successful, at everything he’d tried with the therapist.

Or at least, he’d thought he’d been.

 

xXx

 

_“I dunno doc, I just don’t think I can control myself. Would feel a lot better if you came with.”_

_Rung was squinting at him, Whirl could just feel it. Those_ glasses didn’t fool him.

Nope. Whirl was up to something and this was a trap. Rung knew it. Whirl knew Rung knew it.

Just as they both knew Rung was going to come anyway.

Whirl had never asked for anything like this. Rung would do it for him, for his treatment, even knowing it was most likely a ruse, because he wanted to “establish trust” or some other slag.

He'd never know he already had Whirls trust.

Whirl had no problems using it against him anyways, provided that this was something that would actually help him. Because sure as the pit itself, Skids had so far done all of three awkward, uncomfortable visits to the therapist. Visits one and two had gone absolutely nowhere, and visit three had only gotten as far as it did because he’d asked a question about Rung’s ships.

“If you feel my presence would benefit you, then I suppose I can attend.” Rung said slowly, and Whirl’s optic flicked to a half-moon grin.

He’d won.

Mission 1 was a go!

 

xXx

 

_“Come ooooon! It’s a dance! Aren’t you going to dance!?”_

_“It’s a partner dance,_ Whirl.” Rung corrected, face scanning the crowd. “As I am sure you are aware, I am without one. I will simply wait for the next round.”

Which would have been fine, if Whirl hadn’t  requested dances that required a partner for the next several songs.

“Excuse you, mech, you have a partner right here! Now let’s go!” He gently tugged Rung up, careful not to harm him with the claws. Rung startled, yanked out of his seat with a surprised ex-vent.

‘Whirl-!”He protested, but Whirl was already dragging him to the floor.

The protests didn’t last long, especially since Whirl had made sure to drag Rung near the center. He’d have to shove his way through a throng of mechs to get back to his seat, and they both knew he was too polite to do the kind of elbowing Whirl had done to get to where they were. The 'copter spent the remainder of the song shouting encouragements and dancing crazily.  It took till the end of the next song for Rung to finally relax, but once he did his enjoyment was quick to show.

Perfect. It was all going according to plan.

“Ugh, you’re too short for me.” Whirl grunted, pulling Rung to a stop as the last song ended. “Hey, Tailgate!” He shouted. “Take Rung for the next one, would ya!” And then he all but shoved Rung at the mech.

Rung caught his balance right before crashing into the minibot, and looked up, embarrassed. “Sorry--” He started but was cut off as the shorter mech laughed.

“I’d love to dance!!” Tailgate said, happily grabbing Rung’s hand. Rung’s objections died on his glossa as Tailgate gave him a blinding smile. The next song was a quicker one, more upbeat than the last few, and Rung was quickly absorbed into trying to keep up with him.

Proud as a peacock, Whirl watched from afar as Rung proceeded to dance with a number of other mechs, the small nervous smile on his face finally loosening into something larger.

Mission 1; Accomplished.

 

xXx

 

It was like a dam had broken. Whirl couldn’t stop, was lost in his memories.He had wanted to  look back at a few, not remember every single one. Too late now, they were all coming up. Unbidden, unwanted, and yet drowning him. The ones he had so carefully treasured, because they meant something. They were bright spots in his dark life. Something to be fond of.

Whirl didn’t have a lot to be fond of.

_‘Apparently neither does Rung.’_

Which wasn’t fair to the smaller ‘bot. _‘He’s stronger than me.’_ Whirl snarled at himself, at his own dark thoughts. _‘He’s_ worth _something.’_

To so, so many people. Red Alert. Ratchet. Whirl himself. The thousands of mechs he had helped.

But more than that, the smaller bot had things to live for. Things he enjoyed doing. He was-he was-

He wasn’t social. Whirl’s missions had centered on helping make him social. It hadn’t centered on fixing any other kind of damage.

Just like that more memories came up, memories he scoured for any signs that he had done wrong, any signs that Rung had actually needed help, or given off the kinds of signals Whirl himself had, once upon a time. Before four Autobot commanders and the Wreckers had beat it out of him.

It was important. Important because if he had missed what should have been so obvious to him, then, then…

_‘And in that way, Whirl, you and I are more alike than you think.’_

Then maybe it’d make ending it all a little easier to bare.

 

xXx

 

 _Mission 42 was more advanced than anything he’d pulled off prior, but Whirl had faith. Rung had slowly integrated with Rewind’s crowd, until_ his presence was assumed rather than an anomaly.  He was still quiet, but he’d relaxed enough to joke and join in on off-ship expeditions.

But more than that? He’d opened up.

Rung liked sweets. He loved his spaceships (which were fully functioning models and Whirl did not want to think about how he’d rebuilt most of them from scratch since coming aboard) and hated poor grammar. He secretly enjoyed sappy romance novels but couldn’t resist a good murder mystery. He hadn’t published anything for nearly a millenia and despite refusing to carry a gun or weapon of any kind, had impeccable aim while playing darts.

He was a friend. To a lot of mechs here now.

That didn’t mean he fully felt like he had friends, or should have friends rather. Which is why he avoided movie night. It was a line he’d drawn. He’d enjoy himself, let himself hang out with people and socialize, had talked his stupid doctor morals down that much, but whatever it was about movie night, something made him stop. Whirl didn’t know if it was because half the time it was held in Rewind and Chromedome’s hab rather than the bar, or if it was because of some other, unspoken therapist thing, but Rung would. Not. Go. To. It.

None of Whirl’s whining, wheedling, or general antics were making him budge.

Which left Whirl with option D; guilting.

Whirl could be very good at guilting, when prompted.

“It’s alright.” He vented hard, looking away deliberately. “I know how I am. You don’t wanna hang, I get it.

“Ah, no, Whirl-” Rung’s antenna shot up in surprise, clearly not anticipating the direction the conversation had just taken.

“No need for excuses doc, I got you.” He stood suddenly, but kept his helm low. Nice and sad-like. Just a kicked turbo-puppy, yes he was!

Rung’s alarm was present in his field now. He stood as well, coming around his desk. “That is not at all what I meant.” He adjusted his glasses briefly, then pleaded; “Whirl, look at me pease.”

Whirl tilted his helm, ever so slightly over to catch  the edge of Rung’s face.

Rung slowly inched forward, so he could look into Whirl’s optic better, field sincere. “I did not protest because of you, and I am deeply sorry it seemed that way. I had-well I suppose the reasons I protested don’t matter much do they? If this means a lot to you, I will go.” His voice softened, a hand slowly reaching out to pat one of Whirl’s drooping blades. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Like taking candy from a sparkling.

“Thanks doc.” Whirl said, letting his voice keep the serious-sadness for a minute longer before perking up and slinging an arm around Rung’s shoulders. “So come on then, we’re gonna be late!”

He had to tilt his head to the ceiling to hide his smugness-despite the fact that he had a limited range of optic movements to emote, Rung was remarkably adept at reading him and that wouldn’t do now.

Mission; accomplished.

xXx

 

His optic was out of focus, his frame running tremors from lack of fuel and Whirl still stood there. Right in front of his guns, his collection of weapons, lost deep in thought.

Had Rung not wanted to go because it brought up bad memories? Whirl had been certain it had just been the last of those idiotic, ancient, outdated as frag moral doctors codes, but what if it wasn’t? What if he had pressed and guilted Rung into going to something that made him uncomfortable-that had hurt him?

He knew better than anyone who something as stupidly innocent as going to a crowded activity could bring up all kinds of past stress and errors. Maybe it was just the crowds themselves-maybe that’s why Rung had avoided the bar entirely to begin.

Too much noise, too many voices, too many people- yeah. Whirl had been the same damn way until he’d gotten further twisted up.

And he’d forced it on Rung.

The gun was looking awfully appealing right about now.

‘ _My experiences were vastly different than  yours and it may be unfair of me to compare them, but I wished to share anyway-because I wanted you to know I would never allow anything to happen to you without your consent, Whirl.’_

Rung hadn’t consented to getting dragged out, to being pulled out of his shell. But he hadn’t sounded mad when he had told Whirl, when he had confessed. And this kind of thing, the dark secrets that lurked in one's processor and marked them as different, was a confession. To let go of it, to speak of it, was to acknowledge it. To share it was to give the listener power. Because once someone knew their perception of you changed forever-and if they chose to spread it, chose to let others in on it, their perception would change too.

Whirl knew, first hand, how awful that could be. How you could get labeled, your actions and words forever cursed to be followed by what had happened to you in the minds of anyone who knew. How you were no longer viewed as normal but as something else, at times no longer even a person but a thing one had to be careful around.

_‘But isn’t that what you’re doing? Looking at Rung’s actions through a label?’_

He was. He wanted to scream it was different, it was more than what others thought, and he’d never think like _them_ , but he couldn’t say for sure.

He’d never been on this side of things before.

He went to pick the gun back up, hating everything but especially himself.

He caught his reflection on the polished surface, caught his own angry expression. It had been a while since he’d seen it, since he’d been this fragged off. This mixed up about shit.

The last time had been-yeah. At a bar. With Rung.

Of course.

He didn’t really want to recall that memory, but the gun convinced him otherwise. Because If he was going to go through with it, why not? Why  shoo away the one memory he’d been truly hiding from long before any of this had started? Why not remember something he enjoyed for once?

Why not look at the feelings Rung had caused, before this had all gone to the pit?

So he did.

xXx 

 

 _“Frag you.” It was spat with static, vocalizer nearly fritzing in anger. Whirl_ was overcharged, upset, and ready to take the face off anyone who came close. Getaway mockingly rubbing his helm wasn’t a trespass he was about to forget.

“Whirl.” A quiet, calm voice said. He didn’t need to look down to know it was Rung. He ignored the smaller bot, moving forward, toward his opponent. His Rung mission had concluded for the evening-had almost concluded entirely, in fact. Rung had integrated with the crew. He was expected at movie night-had suggested one, even! And was invited to all sorts of outings. He’d been made honorary host of the bars trivia night and now slipped in comfortably between most of Rewind’s crew when dining or just needing some time off. So Whirl didn’t feel bad abandoning him, didn’t feel bad when he’d indulged in a few victory drinks and definitely didn’t feel bad when he decided to beat some manners into that sneaky, idiotic spy.

Getaway knew he was coming for him, had slipped into a fighter's stance. The smirk on his face hadn’t left yet though. Whirl almost hoped it stayed on, just so he could physically remove it.

A hand on his hip made him freeze.

“Whirl, I think I am overcharged. Would you please walk me back to my habsuit? I don’t think I can make it on my own.”

His thoughts paused as he realized Rung had followed him. The smaller bot gently squeezed his hip, an easy place for Rung to reach, and unfortunately, one harder for Whirl to easily dislodge him.

“Eyebrows.” He said it warningly, not wanting to give anything away. No one needed to see him back down because Rung said a few words--that’s how mechs got their afts kicked in the showers. Worse, that’s how mechs changed their targets from him to Rung. He couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t let Rung be a known weakness for him.

He also couldn’t bring himself to hurt the smaller bot either though, which currently left him in quite the dilemma. His pincers were large enough that he couldn’t remove Rung’s hands were they were, without force, and taking another step forward proved Rung was just going to move with him rather than letting go.

Whirl’s rotors spun in fury, engine kicking in a growl as his optic swept the area and he realized there wasn’t anyone left who’d willingly get close enough to him to help me out with Rung. Worse, there wasn’t many places for him to safely dump Rung either, not if he wanted to get back fast enough to fight.

_Frag._

He was considering options (such as brawling on the tables. That aft Sunstreaker’s was right over there, and frankly, Whirl wouldn’t mind an inch if he dragged that moron into a fight.) when Rung swung in front of him, effectively blocking him off from both potential opponents.

“Please?” He asked simply, small smile on his face. As though Whirl’s field wasn’t thick with bloodlust, as though the copter’s guns weren’t online and his plating wasn’t slicked down in battle-preparation.

Rung had him trapped.

 _Double frag_.

It was Swerve who ended up saving him, dumping a bucket of Primus knew what on as many mechs as he could hit (which was mostly Getaway, seeing as he was closest to the bar)

“How many times have I told you guys!” He whined, bucket held high over his head. “No more fighting in the bar! We’re running out of ways to fix the chairs!”

Getaway and the few other mechs he had hit sputtered. The tense air left abruptly, and with a final glance, Getaway turned his back on Whirl. Normally it was a fatal mistake, but Rung had moved both his hands so they gently held Whirl’s claws and he found he was suddenly incapable of moving them.

“Pretty please?” Rung tried again, with a tilted head and that small, sweet smile. Whirl huffed.

“Fine.” He said after a moment, taking one final look at Getaway’s back.  “Fine. Your hab it is.” He tried to play it off, tried to look mean as he stalked out of the bar. It didn’t work for a second, not with Rung tamely leading him with a gentle hold.

It took him less than a joor to realize Rung was nowhere blitzed out to have to be walked back to his hab-which was conveniently located in the back of his office.

“That was a dumb ploy. You’re not that overcharged.”He said, sulking.

“No and I apologize for my deceit.” Rung straightened, letting go of Whirl’s claws. “ But I’d rather not have the both of you in the brig tonight. I was promised a game of battleship and I intend to hold you to it.”

Whirl slowed to a stop at that, staring at Rung. The therapist kept walking for a few steps before seeming to realize he wasn’t being followed.

“You want me to go into your habsuit, alone with you, and play a game? You losing it, eyebrows?” Whirl asked slowly.

Rung turned, to look back at him. “Not at all. You are perfectly capable of activating your FIM chip to get rid of the effects of the drinks, I’m not worried.”

“That wasn’t what I was talking about.”

Rung made his way back, stopping close enough to look up at Whirl with an honest expression and an equally honest field. “If you are referring to your current emotional state, then I feel it won’t at all affect our game. I feel perfectly safe playing with you, even with you in a fouler mood.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Whirl _loomed._ “That so eyebrows?” He snarled, bringing his aggression and drastic size difference to the forefront. A smaller voice, one he heard so rarely he ignored it on principal shouted that he shouldn’t do that, that’d he’d ruin all he worked for, and to fragging stop! But he was already moving, armor already flared.

Rung gave him another small little smile, and a quiet, “Indeed. You are mad at Getaway, not me. And I believe if you were mad at me you wouldn’t harm me.” He reached out, and before Whirl could figure out what he was going to do, poked him in his abdominal plating. “Now are you coming? We are losing precious battleship time.”

Whirl stared, wide-opticed, as the orange mech turned to walk away, clearing expecting Whirl to follow him. He staggered slightly, stopped, corrected himself with a small giggle, and kept walking. Which was about the exact moment Whirl realized he had been right the first time, and had simply second guessed himself.

Rung _actually was_ completely blitzed.

 _‘Primus.’_ He thought as Rung began to whistle. ‘ _He got in front of me, in a fight, knowing how fragged off I was, and dragged me off to be with him alone while_ drunk!’

The thought struck him like a pin to a balloon and Whirl deflated, the fight going out of him. He followed Rung, dumbstruck.

 _‘He actually trusts me enough not to harm him while he’s drunk_.’ Was all he could think and the level of that trust that showed….

He’d never been given anything like it.

“Hmmm.” Rung said, staring at his office door. “I can’t seem to input the proper codes.” He turned to Whirl, teetering a little. “Can you do it?”

‘Sure, Eyebrows.” Whirl muttered, coming up behind him to do just that. Leave it to Rung to know he knew the codes to his office. Rung didn’t move though, which forced Whirl to reach a claw around his shoulder to touch the pad.

Something warm ballooned in him, overtaking him as he felt Rung’s field.

Rung was _happy._

He’d just stopped Whirl from ripping Getaway into pieces,  knew what he could do when Whirl was that fragged off, and yet here he was, with Whirl, alone, and happy about it. 

Emotions Whirl would forever deny he had floated through him, and he let himself just _feel_ them for a moment.

He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve kindness, or caring, or the friendships he thought he had.

He didn’t deserve Rung.

But he had him, and he’d enjoy it while it lasted.

Whirl didn't like making promises, not when he knew how empty they could be. But here in that moment, be made himself one he swore to uphold.

He'd protect Rung. If he did nothing else, if he died trying, he'd make sure the stupid therapist made it safe and happy through the other side of this mission.

“There.” He said as the door swung open. “Just know I’m gonna kick your aft at battleship!”  

 

xXx

 

Whirl might have failed him, but Rung was stronger than he was. Stronger than he ever would be. Rung had survived much better than Whirl. He didn’t need to review his memories to know that.

Whirl had always debased his own value by what had been done to him. It wasn’t self hatred or anything of the sort-it was fact. He had been ruined. He had been turned into a weapon-a damn good one-and he had excelled at it until he no longer had a use.

Currently, he did not have a use.

It was his own fault though. He’d tried to do something good. He wasn’t meant to do good things-frag, his entire view of what was and wasn’t good was screwed up. He knew that. Everyone knew that-because they told him.

Springer had once told him he hadn’t wanted to live if he was out of commission, stuck unable to react to what was around him. He wanted to go out hard and fast-not slow. Never slow. Whirl had acted on those wishes, and been banished for it. It had killed him to try and put one of the few people he respected out of his misery, but it had killed him more that he hadn’t been able to go through with it. On top of it, He’d  been kicked out of the Wreckers, the only people he had ever been attached too-by the mech he considered to be his best friend, all because he’d tried to do one last thing for someone who had earned his trust.

Primus, really and truly hated him.

But how could he hate Rung? How could he allow Rung to be treated like that?

His welds itched, as though teasing him and if it weren’t for the fact that he was fairly certain Red Alert now had his room bugged, he would have torn them back open. Because he couldn’t do this. Face his failures. Face the knowledge that someone had hurt Rung.

Hurt him like they’d hurt Whirl.

And Rung didn’t deserve that-to go have the same demons that chased Whirl. The copter went out of his way to do the things that had to be done, to do the things that were needed, because of them. He was already damaged, so why not add on more? Why make a sane mech go on a life threatening mission? Why make them push the button that would kill hundreds? Why do anything that could potentially harm a decent mech, a savable one, when Whirl was covered in so much psychological scars (and more than a handful of physical ones?)

Cybertronians as a rule didn’t scar easily, either. So why hurt someone else, when he was available?

He was so used to being the one to step up, being the ones others hated because the only way he could do the things he did was with a trace a humor, was acting like it didn’t affect him at all, that he didn’t know what to do with someone he cared about being on his level.

 _‘Rung is not on your level. Rung is not_ damaged _like you are.’_

Except he was.

_Primus frag it all!_

Whirl railed against the Gods, against fate, against everything. He whipped about, alternated between punching his wall and pacing endlessly.. His thoughts circled each other, hungry wolves r at a stalemate.

Because Rung meant something. Was worth something. And it didn’t matter that Whirl’s Rung Missions had started to just try and make the smaller bot happy. More social. It had evolved, somewhere down the line, and Whirl knew he couldn’t leave things like this. Leave without knowing.

Rung was so much stronger than he was. Not physically, pit no! But emotionally certainly. He’d recovered better, had gone on to help people. Who had Whirl gone on to help? No one. Not a damn single person. Rung had been the first person he’d given a damn about in a millenia. More so than he ever had for any of his fellow Wreckers. Rung was a good fragging person. Worth more than any single frontliner, or wrecker, or warrior.

It was for that reason that Whirl finally made his decision. Finally threw down his guns and stormed out of his habsuit. Because he might have been fragged, might only have a few weeks left to live, but he couldn’t go out now.

No. He couldn’t die until he knew, for certain, that Rung knew what he was worth.

He just had no idea how to tell him that. Had no idea how to confront him, or comfort him, or-frag.

He made it roughly four steps out of his hab, determination thinning as he realized he had no clue how to approach this. How to even start. Was Rung going to even be open about discussing it? Or would he want to discuss Whirl’s own problems? Or nothing at all?  Would he even listen to Whirl, especially know that he knew so much about the copter’s own damage? Was he upset at him for all the things Whirl had dragged him too? He had brought up his own past, had framed it as a way to try and show Whirl he meant what he said, that he understood, but what if bringing it up had meant something else? There were too many options, too many times things had looked straightforward but were anything but, for Whirl to properly approach this.

Rage rolled through the copter again, sudden and sharp. Everything that had happened, the situation he was in, that Rung had been forced like he had-it was _too much._

It had been too much, but all it once it was more than that. It was overwhelming, reddening his vision, and Whirl couldn’t bare it anymore. He needed to talk to Rung, yes. But he had to sort himself out first. If things went sour afterwards, well, Ratchet said he only had about a month anyway, hadn’t he?

  
He might as well get into a good ol’ head-clearing fight first.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, Ambulon was originally only supposed to have the two scenes (the one where he confronts Whirl, and one where Ratchet confronts him) before disappearing for a few chapters and reappearing to talk to Whirl and give parallels to help Whirl’s problem. Funny right? I plan fics so good guys! Second fun fact!; Whirl’s bar scene is the second one I wrote in this fic. I literally wrote half the fucking thing just to connect those two scenes bar scenes with the first chapter. As stated in the last chapter, Ambulon’s relationships are pretty ambiguous. Interpret as you will. 
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: Ambulon’s a mess, Whirl’s a drunken mess, suicidal thoughts, mentions of past rape/torture/abuse/etc, panic attack, um. Hmm. Unexpected sleepover? I dunno. Hit me up if you find something you want up here.

* * *

 He went to the bar looking for a fight.

He did not go to end up slumped drunkenly over the bar. Half the crew wasn’t in tonight-he didn’t know where they were. Judging by Swerves dejected smile and annoyed sighs when he kept ordering drinks instead of leaving, Whirl assumed it was another Lost Light “event.” The mech brightened considerably when Tailgate and Cyclonus walked in the door though-which Whirl thought was unfair. He wasn’t feeling all that peachy either, yet no one was gonna come save his aft. He had to battle his demons all by his clawed lonesome and Primus if he had to be miserable so did Swerve!

“Hey guys! Over here!” Swerve called, waving a chubby arm like mad.  Whirl had to fight the urge to try and rip it off. Maybe beat him with it.

Yes. Definitely beat him with it. 

Course he couldn’t, because his claws weren’t really suited for making his own drinks and really, he was just too lazy to do it himself. Best to leave Swerve be, and threaten violence on the minibot later.

After he’d run out on his tab again. 

Tailgate and Cyclonus approached the bar, the shorter of the two waving back enthusiastically.

 _Ugh no, not over here_. Whirl glared, optic nearly a line as they took a seat beside him.

Well, Tailgate took a seat besides him anyway. Whirl was a little amazed Cyclonus let him, usually the ex con was adept at reading when Whirl was in a stabby mood and kept Tailgate separate from him. Not that he’d ever harm _him_ , but that was something both he and Cyclonus liked to pretend they didn’t know.

At least someone on this ship knew how to keep a mechs reputation in tact.

“Hey Swerve! Nutjob!”

“‘Gate. Psychotic.” Whirl grumbled, not even bothering to acknowledge the nickname and firing off one of his own. 

“We haven’t seen you in a while, have you been on duty?” Tailgate asked, as Cyclonus bent his head down to speak with Swerve.

“No.” _Please stop taking._

Tailgate paused at that, visor crinkling up in a way that made him far too adorable for Whirl to look at. ‘Gate often reminded him of Earth’s baby animals. Possessed of an overwhelming cuteness that made you want to choke the life out of him.

“You look kinda sad.” the minibot spoke quietly now, turned entirely so he could look at Whirl.  “Are you okay?”

And he almost laughed, because really, no one besides Tailgate would be stupid enough to ask that question.

_Am I ever okay? Have I ever been okay? Pretty sure everybody knows the answer to that is a big fat no._

They just didn’t care enough to want to involve themselves into the mess that was his life. Which was a good thing-because the people that had tried to help had done such a wonderful job that Whirl reacted with a drastic level of violence to anyone who went for a repeat attempt.

“Please,” He scoffed, because hello, reputation? “I am never anything but awesome.” _‘And I will remain to be awesome, up  until second I blow my head off.’_ But that was after Rung. After. Then he did his best not to flinch because his entire reason for coming into the bar was to forget he needed to go talk to Rung.

Tailgate thought that over for a moment. “What about awesomely-sad?”

“That’s not a thing.” Sensing an opening though, Whirl added; “But it might be if you order me another drink…”

And bless Tailgate he did it before Cyclonus could stop him.

Because if he couldn’t get into a fight, he might as well get plastered.

 

xXx

 

“And just where have you been?”

Ratchet looked up from his drink as Drift squeezed into the spot next to him at the back of the bar.

“I haven’t been anywhere.”

“Really? Because I don’t think I’ve seen you for about a week, and I’ve been in the medbay twice.”

“Looking for me?”

“Wasn’t my official reason for being there either time, but sure.” Drift gave him a smile and a shrug.

Ratchet rolled his optics.

“First Aid said you took some time off. Since you never take time off, I just wanted to make sure that you were uh,” And here Drift looked down, at his drink,  “you know.”

“That I was?” Ratchet asked, because he had no tolerance for beating around the bush.

“Okay.”

Aww. The kid cared!

“There have been a few medical incidents that I needed to study. I haven’t actually been off shift. I’ve been deep into research. I’ve simply switched myself to on-call.” He said. It was about all he could say, on either medical matter he was referring to. Drift was in high command and deserved to know there had been incidents, would likely think he meant Whirl in fact, but he didn’t need to be filled in on the details.

“It has made a good distraction for--other things.” He tried not to look at Whirl, he really did. He didn’t chastise him for drinking either-mech had a lot on his mind and Ratchet could see how well the welds were healing from here. The 'copter was fine. Or about as fine as he was going to be, considering. He didn’t need Ratchet hounding him.

And definitely not in public, where all anyone knew--including Command-- was that he’d gotten into another fight _with_ Command.

“Well that explains why you still look dead tired.” Drift matched Ratchet’s offended glare with a grin. “But that’s at least better than something taking down all our medics.” Spotting Ratchet’s question before he could ask,  Drift added; “Ambulon’s off duty as well, with no scheduled return time. First Aid and Lancer said they were doing fine but you know the _Lost Light._ It just takes one incident and the medbay’s completely overwhelmed.”

Ratchet snorted at that, but didn’t argue. It was true--the _Lost Light_ had more casualties than any unit he had served in prior. Including the Prime’s unit, and that idiot had a bad habit of throwing himself into the line of fire at the slightest opportunity.

Yet, somehow, the smallest thing could happen on the _Lost Light_ and fourteen mechs would end up in critical condition. It was enough of a recurring phenomenon that Ratchet had considered asking Rung if he’d like to co-write a paper on it.

“We’ve had nothing happen the past three days. Let’s hope it stays that way.”  Ratchet said.

Looking back, he’s 100% certain that was where he went wrong. He didn’t believe in Primus, or the Thirteen, or a singular all powerful God, but he did believe in tempting fate and boy could it just not resist challenges like those.

::Ratchet, respond!:: The comm was marked urgent and came in on his emergency line-and worse, it was coming from First Aid.

::This is Ratchet:: He commed back immediately. He was on his feet before he realized he’d moved.

::We need you in the medbay! _Now!_.::

::Who is it?:: He asked, and it was who rather that “what.” Knowing who had gotten themselves messed up this round saved him a heck of a lot of prep time. With so many different frame types on board many mechs required different kinds of treatments or even basic things, like simple tools and varying berth sizes.. He would be able to direct First Aid easier if he knew who.

Except ‘Aid’s next comm made his spark drop. ::Ambulon. He’s bad Ratchet--I have no idea what’s causing it but he’s seizing and I’m losing him!::

Ratchet ran.

 _‘Dammit, he was fine this morning!’_ In fact Ambulon hadn’t been in much danger to begin with.  His coding issues, while concerning, hadn’t appeared to be life threatening. Ratchet had been checking on him since studying him initially, typically mornings and evenings in between combing through every file he had access to looking for something even remotely similar to gestalt coding (and coming up with several potentially related threads he might be able to pull on to help.) He’d cataloged a number of interesting effects seemingly caused by the coding but nothing that could led to something like this!

He made it all the way to the medbay before realizing Drift had come with him. He didn’t care once he did--Drift could be counted on to stay out of the way and help only when asked.

Ratchet had a bad, bad feeling he might need to be asked.

 _‘Just don’t let this end here._ ’ He thought as he burst through the doors. ‘ _Don’t let this be the start of me losin’ a bunch of bots.’_

He was well known for barely being able to handle one loss-and this one was personal. This was one of his mechs.

Like pit was he gonna let him go without a fight.

 

xXx 

They knew.

Well. Sort of. They didn’t know everything. But some things.

Fragging gossips.

How had they even found it out? Alright no that was stupid because Whirl knows it has to be First Aid. Stupid fragging medics. (And nevermind that First Aid wasn’t even aware of Whirl’s medical issues or past. Or Rung’s. Or nuthin'. Nope. Even cratered he wasn’t that dumb. He _was_ dumb enough to spill enough about needing to  give an apology to Rung though, and thankfully no one questioned why. Benefits of being a known asshole, he supposed. But never-mind that and his drunkenly slurred explanations that didn’t make much sense--the fact remained that First Aid was taking the blame for this one and Whirl would see to it that the little medic got what was coming to him before Whirl got his own comeuppances.) Whirl supposed he would have lost it ages ago if it Tailgate had just brought it all up out of the blue, but the mech hadn’t. Instead he let Whirl get drunk off his aft and just waited for the topic to come up naturally--which, considering Whirl’s inability to keep his mouth shut while sober, let alone drunk--took absolutely no time at all. And then the stupid minbot was all caught up on-well, the I-need-to-tell-Rung-something-but-he- might-be-upset-with-me parts and was trying to give _advice_ of all things.

“Well,” Tailgate says it in a voice so innocent it makes Whirl desperate to break something, “why don’t you just go talk to him? Maybe apologize? I can’t imagine him staying upset at you--he always seems super forgiving!”

And yeah, he definitely does need to apologize. That’s for certain. But would Rung even want to hear him out? After everything he’d done-pit he wouldn’t want to see hide nor spark of Rung if there roles were reversed. Maybe--maybe some kind of gesture would be better?

“No,” Tailgate said, visor furrowing, “I really think you should just go apologize.” And crap, had he been thinking aloud again?

“Yes” Tailgate giggled, “And you’re still doing it! But I’m sure this isn’t all as bad as you think.  I mean, we all think a lot of stuffs unforgivable, but Rung forgave Swerve, and Swerve-well, you know.”

“Hey!” Swerve protested as he came round to their half the bar,  field flinching, “I thought we promised not to talk about that anymore!”

“Sorry.” Tailgate reached out, brushing hand and field against his friends. “But it is true!”

“Did he though? Or did he just say he did?” Whirl muttered, much to Swerve’s horror. Tailgate was quick to reassure his friend, leaving Whirl open to finish off his drink.

He nearly choked on it when Cyclonus started talking.

“The fact remains,”  And dammit he’d forgotten the great horned idiot was there, ‘that unless you tell us the nature of the discussion-and apology, we can’t help you much further. 

Tailgate nodded, coming back into the conversation seamlessly.  “We promise whatever it is we won’t judge you for it,” He said, doing the thing were he spoke for both him and Cyclonus and Primus if that wasn’t one of the worst things about couples. “We can even go back and talk in our hab if you like.” He was sincere about it, despite knowing Whirl’s complete and utter revulsion about going into others personal habsuits-at least, going into them when there wasn’t a bunch of others already there. He managed alright for the hosted movie nights-but even then if it was hosted anyplace other than Rewind or Gate’s habs, he bailed.

“Not an option, shortstack.” Whirl replied, waving to Swerve to signal he wanted another drink. Swerve glared, but shuffled off to go make more. “I’m not in the habit of spilling secrets.”  Well that hadn’t been phrased at all like he wanted, but then he was several drinks down already. He just thanked the stars that surrounded them that Tailgate was too busy trying to puzzle out what ‘shortstack’ meant to pay attention to the rest.

“Should you really have another one?” Tailgate asked, apparently giving up on trying to figure out the new nickname. Instead he pointed to the drink Swerve had just dropped in front of Whirl.

“Oh yes.” Whirl responds. “And another after that one, and another after _that_ one…”

He makes a show of chugging the drink while Tailgate shook his head at him.

xXx

 

Cyclonus was a dead fragger. Tailgate too, but mostly Cyclonus. Because sure, Tailgate had told Cyclonus about (some of) Whirl’s problem after seven shots (or was it eight? ten?) but he hadn’t been the one to pick Whirl’s drunk aft off the floor and haul it through the corridors before literally dumping him into Rung’s room. Didn’t even give the poor mech an explanation just rang the bell, chucked in Whirl, and told a confused Rung; “You deal with this.”

Rung had turned and Whirl had tried to get up, to tell him he was fine and sorry about Cyclonus but not to worry because the mech wasn’t going to live much longer, not when Whirl caught up with him--except the room spun suddenly and he wasn’t able to move much.

“How much did you drink?” Rung asked, and Whirl can’t tell if he’s impressed or worried at how drunk he is. He quickly decided on both because, hey, getting this drunk and still being somewhat coherent is an impressive feat thank you.

“Lot’s.” Whirl slurred. “‘S’orry I’ll-I’ll-”

“You’ll sit here and not move while I get a trash bin.” Rung said.

“‘Kay.”

“Can I ask why you have not enabled your EM chip?” And holy shit, Rung had gained the ability to teleport! Or maybe not, Whirl might’ve just meant to wink except he forgot to open his optic again after he shut it. Why was he winking again? Frag this was all hard to keep track of-wait! Rung had asked him a question! What was it? Oh right.

“Oh tha’? Yeah that’s been broken for a while. Might not even have it anymore.” His optic scrunched up in thought,  “Mmmm yawp, nope it’s gone.”

“Of course.” Rung said it in a deadpan tone--which was odd. Almost sounded...unfriendly? But Rung was never unfriendly! Except--

Slag, right. He was pissed at Whirl. And Whirl was-apologizing. Right.

He could do that.

“Jus’ wanted to say I’m sorry.” He said, because you had to start somewhere. Had to get it out of the way first, just in case Rung didn’t want to hear him out. “Rung I’m-I’m _so_ sorry.”

“Whatever for?” That sounded more like Rung-polite but slightly confused. Whirl took it as a good sign and pressed on.,

“You shouldn’t -be like me. N’ you’re not, but...but you kinda are.”   He was messed up enough not to be able to get a read on Rung’s mood-the damn glasses never helped-but he could barely feel his own field let alone the therapists. So when Rung said nothing, he just kept talking. “I just wanted to make you happy. Not….not upset.” Never upset. The exact opposite of upset.

“Whirl you have never upset me.” Rung said gently. The trash bin was between them, but Whirl couldn’t look at it without getting the odd urge to fall down, down, down, into it.  He looked at Rung instead.

“It’s alright. I know. What it's like.” Not wanting to bring the past up. Not wanting to talk about it, ever. But also wanting an apology, someone to just acknowledge he was fucked up for a reason, and he was gonna be that person for Rung. He was gonna apologize, no matter if it killed him- or he killed himself-afterwards.

‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” Rung had teleported again-or had he been moving?-and was sitting cross-legged next to him while Whirl was slumped about the floor. Probably the smartest thing--Whirl doubted the therapist could move him much. He’d probably just throw up on him anyway.

And throwing up through his not-mouth? Yeah. Wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Being caught. Forced. Raped.” He didn’t think he’d ever said it aloud. Not in reference to himself anyway. Other people had labeled it that but he never really had. “Being used as an experiment. So you do what they want.”

He hiccuped, used the moment to try and force his thoughts into something coherent. He failed, but pressed on anyways.

“N’ how they keep going after you. They try to-twist up your head, your processor and even after you get out you still feel them there. Their words. Their ideas. N’ everyone tries to fix you but they just fuck you up worse. And then when they can’t, when you never get better, they slap a coupla labels on you and shove you in a corner. After a while of being forgotten, it starts being...the little things that get you. Small stuff. Too many people in a bar. Too many people touching you. Too loud, too quiet, too crowded.  I never meant-I didn’t know-but that's no excuse. ‘M sorry.”

“Are you speaking of-me? Or you?” Rung was carefully confused now-using his “therapist voice.” Whirl wondered if he knew he had one. Had too right? ‘Cause he’d heard Rung speak normally. Or when he was excited. Happy, proud, sad...none of it sounded like the polite interest his therapist voice had.

“Both.” Whirl slurred.  

Rung had reached out-Whirl wasn’t sure what for. Perhaps the trash can or for Whirl. Either way, his hand passed over Whirl’s helm and as though possessed, Whirl lifted his helm up to connected with it.

“Sorry-!” He apologized immediately because _where had that come from!?_ He was drunk yeah, but he wasn’t an idiot! He was supposed to be apologizing! Bad Whirl! Bad!

Rung didn’t pull his hand away though. Or make a disgusted sound, or smack him. He made a quite little, “Oh!” noise, that did awful things to the ‘copters spark, before resting his hand against Whirl’s helm.

“Does your helm hurt? Here-I’ll rub the seams.” Rung did just that-even as Whirl went to protest. The words fritzed out as he spoke them though, because Rung had scooted closer. Had put both hands on Whirl’s helm-and then pulled it into his lap.

A stray thought, buried deep in the back of  his processor popped up, reminding him that Rung had often spoken of the kind of chronic pains those who underwent empurata often dealt with. How regular massaging usually helped-and the offers he’d extended to Whirl to do just that. The fact that Whirl had taken him up on it more than a few times before he’d realized that being that physically close to Rung did weird things to his system. He’d made excuses-but that was recent. That was all recent. For Rung to think that was what Whirl wanted was perfectly normal and was not, at all, a sign of anything other than the therapist being his usual nice self. Leave it to Rung to want to help ease someone else's pain while they were trying to apologize for screwing him over.

The rest of his processor glitched out. At least, that’s what Whirl thought had happened. Maybe he had shot himself with Brainstorm’s gun. Maybe this was some kind of odd after-life, one he didn’t deserve to be in. The therapist's nimble fingers descended on him, getting into transformation seams and rubbing at the place where his helm connected to his neck, and he was absolutely certain he had died because that felt way too good.

“Whirl?” Shit, had Rung  been talking? Frag, he was too busy lost in This-Can’t-Be-Happening land to pay attention.

The gentle rubs stopped.

“Whirl?” Rung repeated, and he sounded suddenly worried. Whirl felt the urge to get to his pedes, ready to defend the smaller mech from whatever was troubling him. He’d murder it good, oh yes he would!

“Is this alright? I do not wish to overstep any boundaries-I reacted automatically.” Rung continued. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.”

Whirl’s response was immediate, his inner filter having been completely obliterated some odd number of drinks ago. “Nah, It never bothered me. You touching me. Hell, you’re the only person I’m okay with touching me, like this." 

“Like this?” Rung asked. Whirl nuzzled his hands with his helm, trying to get him to move those wonderful fingers.

“Yeah. And sexually. And in general.” Rung’s fingers -which had started-stopped rubbing _again_. Whirl nudged him a little harder and kept talking. “Doesn’t freak me out much when it's you.”

Rung went to talk-at least Whirl thought he did-but he beat him to it. His processor was nagging at him again, having jumped the rails and gone down a cliff- he ended up blurting out a question he hadn’t meant to ask. Not when he was supposed to be apologizing and praising Rung’s strengths.

“What-what do you think I should do?”

And that was not at all what he meant to say but the weirdness was coming back, the drunken swirl of noise and lights and emotions that made it hard to think and easy to forget. He fought it for a moment before giving in, letting it take over. That was why he’d gotten recharged in the first place, right? To look for answers.

Might as well ask one.

 xXx

 

Ambulon was squished in a sea of white. He blinked dumbly as he came online, watching as the forms morphed into white blobs with splotchy colors to a curved yet sleek, white and black form on his right, and a boxy, white and red one on his left.

Ratchet and _Drift._

Slag.

“Um.” Ambulon said, because what else was there to say?

“Your coding is fascinating.” Drift told him. A thin finger stoked along the back of his helm, and Ambulon quickly realized his own head was pillowed on one of Drift’s arms.

_“Um.”_

“You crashed pretty hard-First Aid thought we were going to lose you. Ratchet wasn’t entirely certain what was happening or what was causing it exactly, but it didn’t take us all too long to figure out it stopped if we were close to you.” Drift explained, ignoring Ambulon’s slightly freaked expression.

“So you’re...” _work processor work!_  “...cuddling my crashes away?”

“Pretty much.” Drift shot him a fanged grin. Ambulon blinked-he hadn’t realized Drift had kept the fangs. Ambulon had filed his off the second he’d decided to defect. Not that he had ever paid close attention to Drift’s mouth, but it was something he had felt he had to do to slightly calm Autobot medical patients. He’d assumed Drift, as third in command, would have had a similar train of thought but apparently not.

Good for him.

“Ratch was plugged into you, but he spent a long time trying to keep you going, while figuring out what exactly was wrong.  I told him I’d monitor your vitals so he could sleep.”

Another blink. Ratchet had not only agreed to sleep but allowed a non-medically trained combatant to monitor vital signs? He must have been nearly dead tired to agree to that. Except;

“He told me he took himself off duty!” It was not a shriek, it absolutely wasn’t. Drift was wincing because he had bit himself. Or something. Yeah.  

Totally.

A grumble that might have contained a very butchered form of “Shut it.” rose from Ambulon’s other side, reminding him that his lying boss was in the room.   _And happily cuddling you.’_ A thought that was quickly ignored.

He turned his head, fully planning on chewing said boss out (if there was anything he’d gotten good at since coming onto the _Lost Light_ , it was Ratchet Wrangling. He and First Aid had once talked about writing a book on the subject, to be given to whatever poor medical team was stuck with the old mech next) until his HUD finally deciding it was finished booting.

He opened his mouth right as he was met with a number of disturbing messages, the top one being;

_‘Connectivity-error. Attempted connections, GLHead_Ratchet, interrupted. GLA2_Drift, interrupted. Suggestions: Hardlink cable to complete downloads’._

It took him longer than it should have for that to click.

 _‘The coding tried to attach itself to Ratchet and Drift.’_ Had thrown a temper tantrum at Ratchet’s loss in fact--something Ambulon discovered as he scrolled through the error messages and data-logs in a sudden panic. It had decided upon and set up Ratchet as a new gestalt member, but upon facing days worth of issues, had finally backfired back on Ambulon. In some kind of last ditch effort it had expanded so much energy it had tapped right into the ward managers spark.

Now, after having apparently been resurrected by--Ratchet, of course, the coding had gotten it’s first look at Drift.

Ambulon frowned harder, reading the medic logs, certain lines and commands tagged for comments in case anyone else needed to re-check the medical work Ambulon had undergone in the future. As a fully trained medic Ambulon knew had to access it, had no problems going through what most didn’t even bother opening, and found something beyond disturbing;

Drift had _plugged into him._

It had been done as a last ditch effort, that much was clear. Further lines indicated the reason was because of the gestalt coding’s Decepticon roots-Ratchet had not actually allowed Drift into Ambulon’s systems, but instead piggy-backed on his old Decepticon coding to bypass some defenses even Ambulon didn’t know the coding had.

Those defenses were gone now. In their place was an attachment--to Drift.

He sat up so abruptly he heard Drift swear. His panic, having been building since he had read the logs, crashed over him and he found himself struggling. Against the thin thermal sheets, against the bodies cushioning him, against his very own spark. This couldn’t be happening! It could. Not. Be. Happening!

He’d allowed Ratchet to play with the coding, but he had never thought it would attach like this-or so quickly!

It scared him more than anything he’d ever faced. Delphi, being cut in half by Pharma, all of it. Not one of them was as worse as this was.  Ambulon found he couldn’t vent properly, couldn’t move much and hunched over, hand over his spark as it whirled so fast it _hurt._

“Sit down.” Drift said, voice breeching the darkness. Ambulon jerked, the dying feeling easing someone, as Drift’s engine snarled. He reached up, one hand catching Ambulon as the medic attempted to scramble out of the bed. His arm hooked across Ambulon’s chest, flinging him flat on his back.

““You are injured, and you are being fixed. You will lay back down,” Drift’s head came into view, mouth curling up at the words to show off pointed fangs, “and listen to your betters.” His hand wrapped firmly around Ambulon’s throat.  Pressed downwards. The panicked feeling fled abruptly as he did so and Ambulon’s vents sucked in air, whooshing as they suddenly worked. It was a threat and a promise all in one-and familiar, to both ex-Decepticons. Ratchet stiffened next to him, but Ambulon  relaxed immediately and complied--because he knew that tone. It was ingrained in him, as it was most Decepticons.

Say what you will about ‘Con culture, but their ability to read and give subtle social cues was unrivaled. Drift’s tone and body posture said more than his words did. Trusting him, on automatic and  on years of living in such a culture, Ambulon vented, and let his panic attack pass.

“Drift.” Ratchet said calmly, carefully, but Drift ignored him.

“We on the same page?” Drift asked, but it was more a formality than anything. Ambulon’s field had already relaxed, the jagged edges of panic soothed out during Drift’s display.

“Yes.” He said.

Drift’s engine rumbled, a speedsters purr, and he lay back down, this time draping an arm over Ambulon. The coding, delighted with the return to the social norms it had been created with, encouraged Ambulon to curl in closer.

He did, with no objections.

 _‘Don’t think this means you win.’_ He thought at it. Solving a problem like the side effects of a broken gestalt sometimes meant band-aid fixes and trickery.  Ambulon considered this both. Long as the coding didn’t offline him while Ratchet looked over his options and developed a battle plan, he’d put up with its idiosyncrasies.

“What just happened?” Ratchet asked quietly, in the way of someone who wasn’t certain of danger, but had no problems producing a threat of their own.

“You explain it to the Autobot.” Ambulon half-grumbled, exhausted.

“You’re the medic, you can explain it to him when you’re better.” Drift grumbled back.

“This is a ‘Con thing?” Ratchet clarified, still tense. 

Drift reached out, blindly groping for him. “Yes. Lay back down, would you? You’re causing a draft.”

Ratchet did so after a moment of looking at the two of them like they’d lost both their minds. No doubt there’d be all kinds of trouble later-yelling and wrench wielding-but for now, he went with it. Just as Ambulon did.

This wasn’t over. He couldn’t accept Drift and Ratchet as gestalt mates. They didn’t have the proper modifications he did. They didn’t have the right programming. The coding was useless to them-Ratchet had said as much and he wouldn’t have if he wasn’t positive. It couldn’t affect them like it could him. That meant a number of things, not one of them good for Ambulon.

It couldn’t get hooked on people who didn’t want to be in his life permanently. And no one, ever, wanted to be in his life permanently.  The thoughts finally lulled him back to sleep, the adrenaline easing away and being replaced with a tiredness he felt all the way down to his joints.

He could sleep some more. Put off dealing with this for a few hours.

It was a nightmareishly thin possibility, but he couldn’t help but wondering if maybe Ratchet and Drift had some ideas-that they might be able to put it off for longer.

He could only hope.

 

xXx

 

Whirl’s optic was bright. Rung could only guess how much high-grade he’d had to get processor glitches like this. An impressive amount, surely.  The ‘Copter obviously wasn’t thinking clearly and Rung had to be careful now. His duties as a therapist conflicted with the constriction in his chest. The tightening of dozens of small panels and armor. He vented uneasily, trying to steady himself.

He did not want Whirl to die. Knew that outcome was likely, with the way Whirl was going. What had been revealed to him-Rung wasn’t as opposed to sex as Whirl seemed to think he was. The smaller bot wanted to think he wasn’t as messed up as Whirl was but knew better than that. Couldn't lie to himself like that. 

He was simply farther along in the healing process than Whirl was. Likely had a better support system, even if that support system was just him and no one else. He’d never had people try to label or aide him in his recovery. Luckily for him, that had turned out for the better.

Rung could suggest sex-Primus he could probably suggest Whirl do it right here with him and the ‘Copter would agree. Whirl’s trust in him was such a fragile thing, Rung knew it was, and he knew he couldn’t betray it.

His  own opinion on interfacing might have been twisted. A thing made meaningless since his escape. Whirl didn't see it that way and despite the urging in Rung's spark, to make things right, to at least hint that he’d be perfectly fine with being the one to interface-he held it in. Refused to make a move, until Whirl was thinking with a 100 percent sober processor. Was able to actually decide what he wanted instead of being tricked into it. 

Whirl was completely at his mercy here. Something the copter had likely never had given to someone else, even subconsciously, and Rung knew to treat that as the present it was.

 _“What-What do you think I should do?’_ He had said.

Rung knew the correct answer for that. 

“I think we should retire for the evening.” He said carefully. “The berth in my office can be extended to your size-why don’t you sleep there?” Because there was no way the ex-wrecker was gonna make it back to his hab-not without serious help. Rung already seen the dangers of doing that.

Of course even going to the other room  would involve Whirl getting up and walking through the connecting door-Cyclonus had not been so kind as to throw him in Rung’s office. The therapist had a single moment to think that, upon reflection, maybe this wasn’t the best idea, when Whirl made his attempt.

“‘Kay.” Whirl agreed. He lurched, attempting to get up in an uncoordinated leap before falling back down hard.

Yup. Definitely reconsidering it. 

“Perhaps,” Rung said, vents slightly uneven and glasses askew, Whirl having landed partly back on him, “that was a poor idea.”

Whirl’s engine whining was his only answer. 

“I have some heating blankets and pillows. I will fetch them-you can sleep on the floor.” Which was not ideal-but Rung was hesitant to sleep in his own office.  The door connecting his hab to it was made so that it could only be unlocked from the hab side. Not to mention a good number of his files were kept in here instead of the office, in case someone ever attempted a break in. It was a difficult decision but Whirl was inebriated enough to potentially get them both stuck-and no matter how much he liked the copter, Rung wouldn’t put his other patients at risk like that.

“‘’Ight.” Whirl seemed perfectly happy with that. His back--and rotors-- likely wouldn’t appreciate it later, but it was better than trying to force him to walk. The warrior buried into the blankets and things Rung brought him, happily sorting it into a massive pile.

The smaller mech initially thought Whirl being passed out on his floor would make his own recharge hard to come by, but found instead it had the opposite effect.

He never knew how on edge he felt on a general basis until that sense of safety descended over him. Whirl was an ex-Wrecker. A beserker through and through. One of the Autobot’s top frontliners. Even heavily inebriated, he’d be difficult to take down. He’d defend Rung too--the therapist had seen him do so before.

Which is how having him crash on the floor led to one of the best recharges of Rung’s life.  

Not that it lasted long, nor did it go uninterrupted, but for what he had of it was seamless tranquility.

When it _was_ interrupted, it  took Rung a moment to figure out what had woken him.

He sat up on his berth, optics unfocused and blurry. It took him a moment to adjust in the dark but when he did nothing seemed out of place. No warnings lights or comms. The ship itself was perfectly fine. Which left--

“Whirl? Are you alright?” He said. The copter’s engine made an odd noise in response, and not a good one. Rung leaned over the berth, searching out the mass huddled on the floor. Whirl had wrapped himself up in the blankets helm poking out of the swaddle.,

He was also much closer than he had been. 

“Whirl?” Rung tried again, speaking softly.

The ‘copters optic blinked at his name, face turning towards him. “Rung?” He asked, and the therapist sensed Whirl’s field as it reached out, testing his.

Rung bumped it back but winced as he did it--Whirl was _definitely_ still drunk. Not a surprise, it had only been a few hours according to his chronometer. He’d fully expected Whirl to wake up drunk with as much as he’d had.

“Ah--yes." He responded.  "You’re in my hab.” Always start by identifying things, even to drunk bots. “Cyclonus felt you were too overcharged to go home alone.” At least, Rung thought that's what had happened. 

Maybe. 

Whirl took a moment to process that. When he did his optic focused, lightning fast on the smaller bot.

“You’re not mad? At me? For what I did?” He said immediately. 

Confusing, but that wasn’t unexpected nor difficult to work with. Rung smiled gently. “Whirl you have never done anything for me to be mad about.” It was apparently the theme of the evening-he still wasn’t quite sure what Whirl was apologizing for. It had something to do with the both of their pasts and their similarities in them. He got that. But Whirl seemed to be under the impression he’d forced something, crossed some kind of line.

Rung, for the life of him, could not figure out what that line was.

“Yes,” The ‘copters voice was quiet in a way Rung had never heard.”I have.”

That wasn’t going anywhere good. It was time to change tactics before Whirl worked himself up again.

“Whirl,” Rung kept his own voice gentle, swinging his legs over his birth and setting his elbows on his knees, so he could better see the pile of 'copter on the floor, “I forgive you. For all you think you need to be forgiven for.”

Whirl’s optic blazed in the dark, a choked emotion running through his field. It was far enough away that Rung couldn’t quite feel it, but Whirl was talking before Rung could attempt to puzzle it out.

“You are worth so much. So much more than whatever they told you, Rung. You’re the best person I’ve ever met-n’ you need to know. How good you are.”

Rung’s face was modified to hold his glasses-they clicked into place. They couldn’t fall off, no matter what he did. Except he was certain they were about to fall, because his optics had popped so wide they felt like they were coming out of place. He lifted a hand up without thinking, intending to move them, even knowing they hadn’t disconnected because they were so busy running error lines.

_Error: EM-199pC7_

_Error: EM-199pC7_

_Er-_  

He took them off finally, not caring if his optics were exposed. “Whirl,” He said, dumbstruck, but the ex-Wrecker wasn’t finished.

“I’ll protect you. From them. You know that right? I’ll always protect you. They’ll never touch you again. No one will.” Rung opened his mouth to that, only for his spark to try and leap out. Whirl’ had somehow gotten closer-his field was wide open, encasing Rung with a sense of blazing honesty and an overcharged tinge, “You’re worth _so much_ Rung.  You do so much, for all of us. People don’t tell you enough, but half of ‘em would be fragged without you. More n’ half. Lot’s. You’re _important._ ”

Even though the 'copter was still drunk, Rung knew he meant it.

What was it Froid had once told him? Drunken words were sober thoughts? An exaggeration surely, but at times it wasn’t much of one.

Yeah, he didn’t need the error message to alert him. He knew very well he was too deep, too late. 

“Thank you.” He said it quietly, overcome with emotions himself. This was never something he thought he’d needed to hear--never something he thought was important enough to be _said._ He wasn’t sure what to do now that someone was saying it, frankly. Emotions--thoughts on the whole subject reared up and he let them. Let it come instead of trying to force it down as he once did.

“That-that means--” -- _Everything._ That meant everything, to him. His spark was tight in his chest-not out of fear but with wonder. Shock. Whirl had far more on his processor than Rung’s own past, yet, he’d made Rung a priority. Rung had just told him what he had in attempts to establish a connection, to let Whirl know he wasn’t alone and because his spark thought it relevant but he’d never imagined Whirl’s reaction to it would be…

Would be this.

"This means a lot to me.” He said, starting over. “You didn’t have to say that, but Whirl, truly, thank you.”

“No I did." Whirl's voice blazed with honesty. "You needed to know.”

It was the kind of gift Rung had never before received. His spark jumped and jerked, his intuition trying to point out something but he ignored it to just live in the moment. Just once.

He wanted this, just this once. Wanted to have it without worry or anxiety or concerns. 

“Thank you.” Rung repeated, vocalizer choked. He didn’t know what to do with himself, with his hands or his body. His glasses were curled in his hands, his field a mess. Whirl didn’t seem to know either, and after a few careful taps with his field to make sure Rung was physically fine, settled back down.

He was out soon enough, leaving Rung to try and pull himself back together. He sat on his berth in the dark for longer than even he realized, thinking things over, wondering just when it was Whirl had managed to pull him apart like this. Because it wasn’t just tonight. It was a culmination of things of strings unraveled and his spark thumped, wanting to give an answer.

He just wasn’t ready to hear it.

 

xXx

 

Rung hadn’t set an alarm to wake them. He’d meant to, but had been rather...distracted. So instead of a series of somewhat pleasant beeps bringing him about, he was subjected to being roused by Whirl.

Again.

The warrior was standing, taking in Rung’s berth room with a wide optic. It was clear he was running through his likely damaged logs, even to a not-quite-awake-yet Rung.

“Oh shit.” Whirl said it in a breathy voice, and Rung sat up to try and reassure him but Whirl was already backing up.

Rung kept himself relaxed, his movements slow in the face of clear panic.  “Good morning, Whirl. Do you have any physical symptoms of a hangover?”

Whirl’s stopped, optic on Rung and his field full of--was shame? before he yanked it back close. “Oh shit.” He repeated. “Did--did we--”

“Interface? No we did not.” Rung guessed. He’d thought Whirl might be worried about it, had worried for a short while about potential repercussions of Whirl staying over, but had accepted the risk in lieu of keeping Whirl calm and not stumbling around the ship out of his mind. “You are welcome to check my own data if yours does not prove so.” He offered a wrist, a dataport cover sliding aside as he did so.

When Whirl didn’t do anything but stare, he got up.  Keeping his movements slow and expression neutral as he reached into his energon stash. He grabbed two glasses, pouring one for himself and Whirl. Unnaturally still--Whirl was never one to just freeze like this--the 'copter watched him.

“I think,” Rung said slowly, turning around and offering a glass to Whirl, “that we need to talk.”

And that seemed to snap Whirl out of it. “Nope! No, sorry doc, that's perfectly alright! Sorry for uh, crashing here and um, I’ll-just-be-going-!”

“Whirl--” But Rung’s too late. Whirl had already opened the door and launched out of his room, all but sprinting down the hallway.

Rung watched him go, then looks at the second engeron glass. He debated putting it away, before deciding that this was going to be a “need a big breakfast” kind of day. He downed both himself, and then sat down.

He had quite a bit to think about.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S H I T sorry this is so late ya'll. I went back and fourth a lot with this chapter, and ended up moving chunks of it, twice, to the next chapter. 
> 
> This chapter was immensely improved by Interrobam, who took on the terrifying task of editing this and then yelling with me about it. Please give them all the praise. 
> 
> Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, mentions of past rape/torture/abuse/etc, super awk conversations, therapist admitting he has caught the feels for his patient and having a not so good reaction to that morally, and I think that is it but my brain is mush. Tell me if you want something else up here!

 

* * *

 

Rung dedicated a good amount of time to making sure he was emotionally and mentally fit for seeing patients. Had done so after his time with the Functionalists and again after Swerve had blown his helm off.  He could not-- would not-- endanger a patient by something so simple as refusing to take care of himself. He refused to see clients when he knew he could harm them by not being fully focused. A tired, overworked mind led to saying things that could cause a backslide, or cause a patient to lose trust in him. 

Neither were  _ ever  _ acceptable.

So, after a brief moment to think it all over, having not once moved from the berth since Whirl’s departure, Rung canceled all of his appointments.

He hadn’t done so voluntarily in nearly a hundred years, not since the explosion that had murdered the majority of his last crew. He knew these signs, though. Knew when he was too distracted to handle himself, let alone others.

Which brought him to this moment. He couldn’t ignore this any longer, not when it interfered with his work. Rung’s work was what he lived for-- at times the  _ only  _ thing he lived for. He was one of the few remaining cybertronian psychiatrists left.  Now, at the wars tentative end, he was needed more than ever.  

His glasses, perched on his nose, spouted off a variety of errors now and then as he thought. Making him face what his spark had been trying to get him to see. Betraying him further-- even if he had programmed them to do so. 

It had taken quite a bit to get them right-- almost his entire life's work as well as a handful of medics. Measuring a combination of spark rate, mechanical functions, and reactions, all perfected and touched up over the centuries. The errors that scrolled by weren’t errors in the traditional sense-- they had merely been programmed to be read as such. Because they  _ were  _ errors, for Rung. He’d tightened their protocols after his last ship-- after the incident that had nearly cost him his career.

_ ‘It  _ did _ cost you your career,’ _ an inner voice whispered, and the guilt-- the knowledge that he continued to practice despite that-- swarmed him once more. An old guilt by now, normally one he could deal with. He’d carried on, had taken the second chance offered to him, because Cybertronians as a whole were down medics. There were only a handful of them left and he’d known they’d need him to continue-- had selfishly thought they’d need him even more if the war ever came to an end. 

The fact he was right didn’t make it any easier to bear. 

He would never have a repeat of his last ship.

_ ‘Pity that that is exactly what’s happening, _ ’ he thought. That was the worst thing of all. He’d been given a second chance, a shot at redemption-- and here he was. Blowing it.  

More than blowing it-- he was endangering a patient's recovery because he couldn’t get his emotions together. Couldn’t stay detached. Because his spark kept doing things and errors kept appearing in his glasses, because Rung’s reactions kept getting more and more off track. 

“You are not fit to be a medical professional,” his prior Captain had told him, optics glittering in disappointment. The crew shaking their heads and whispering how far he’d fallen as he was escorted to the brig. Patients who had trusted him frantically transferring their files, looking for someone else to help and coming to the realization that there wasn’t anyone else-- at least, not one close enough or capable enough to aid them. 

It stung to know he was right, that Rung had done exactly what they had told him he’d do-- continue to make immoral decisions regarding his patients. Continue to destroy the lives he should have been fixing. 

There were lines he was to never cross. Boundaries he had to maintain. He had let them relax since joining the Lost Light, had let the time since his last stint on a ship distance him from the fatal errors he’d made. He’d allowed himself to indulge in the social aspect of things-- worse still, he’d allowed himself to have friends. To be a friend. It didn’t matter who with, everyone was his patient, had the potential to become his patient, and he’d thrown away his ethics code just because he was lonely.

What a sad excuse that was.

Whirl’s involvement was the core of it though-- because Whirl invoked things in him that went beyond friendliness.  _ Far  _ beyond. 

And that’s where all his problems lay.

He had romantic feelings for Whirl. 

A part of him felt deeply betrayed-- furious at himself for letting this happen because it  _ wasn’t supposed to _ . He wasn’t supposed to have friends. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love! He wasn’t supposed to betray his medical oath, and certainly not a second  time! He was supposed to have learned his lesson! 

Of course, Whirl wasn’t supposed to _ die, _ either. At least, not from an  excessive  amount of charge that could be cured if he interfaced with another-- or at least allowed himself to be medically interfaced under anaesthesia. Something neither Rung nor Ratchet would suggest again, considering the ‘Copters history.Instead Whirl had done exactly what Rung had told him too. He’d gone through a list of mechs on the ship and come up with a list of those he felt comfortable enough to go through with the procedure. 

It was a very short list, considering it just had Rung’s name on it. 

Which should not be a problem. Should be an honor, in fact. More than that-- should be the healthiest option he could pick. Interfacing in situations like this one had long been a part of the history of his profession, of  Cybertronian therapy. Rung was particularly was good at it-- had patients sent to him just for it-- because of his ability to detach himself from the romantic aspects of sex. It was a healing medical procedure, done carefully so as to not traumatize or further harm the patient. Every step was taken to make sure no one got any kind of attachment, other than the proper medic-patient kind, throughout it. 

He would have been the perfect person to help Whirl through this-- if he hadn’t gone and screwed it all up by getting emotionally attached. Now it wouldn’t just be a procedure if Rung went through with it. By nature of his feelings alone it’d change the _ entire act a _ nd... and Primus how could he have screwed up  _ so badly!?  _

A feeling of circling, sinking dread dragged at him, eating away until Rung could bear it no more. His fingers clutched at the edge of his berth, the emotions twisting inside him, stabbing at him. He’d fragged up, more so than he had ever done previously. More so than he had in his entire functioning. 

In the end that dread was a good thing-- because it forced him do what had to be done. What he should have done, long ago.

He took a vent, accepted his fate, and commed Ratchet.

He had hidden a lot of things. Some of those things he never should have. But it was war. They all had secrets. 

Rung only hoped he could be forgiven.    
  


xXx

 

_ One hour prior  _   
  


Drift’s finals twitched, receiving an incoming comm. He accepted without looking to see who it was-- didn’t feel the need to. He knew who was on the other end. 

::He still asleep?:: Ratchet asked as he walked through the hab door. 

::Yeah,:: Drift said. The speedster was draped over his medical warden, engine purring happily. Ambulon was out cold. Neither had moved since Ambulon had last woken some eight hours ago. ::Don’t wake him, he’s had a rough go of it. That coding is really putting him through the ringer.::  The panic attack the younger bot had faced the second he’d onlined went unspoken between them. It was too fresh for both of them to forget anytime soon. 

Nevermind how Drift had “soothed” it away. Ratchet had questions, Drift knew. He’d commed Drift before he’d left that morning that he’d want answers later-- but for now to do whatever was in his power (short of actually harming Ambulon) to keep him calm.

He’d been worried when he woke. Asked Drift to stay. The conversation hadn’t eased him any and Drift, wisely, had done what he’d asked.

He had a bad idea of what Ratchet was thinking about, and wanted to give the CMO some time to himself. 

Ratchet sighed, and ran a hand down his face. ::I know.::

Ratchet hadn’t been operating on a lot of sleep-- last night’s was likely the most he’d gotten in awhile. The CMO had the absolute worst habit of working himself into a stupor, and Drift had taken up the mantle many had held before him of insuring the medic remained functioning through such episodes. It had been why he’d sought Ratchet out, though he wouldn’t admit to it. 

The worst part of such a stupor was getting Ratchet to go into a proper, full recharge-- but once you got him there he’d often awake with a fresh processor and new ideas for whatever problem he was facing. 

Unfortunately, sometimes that meant realizing said problem couldn’t necessarily be fixed, that he couldn’t put things off any longer. More often than not, that was when the hard decisions were made-- though for obvious reasons people preferred to focus on the life saving miracles that Ratchet came up with instead. 

Drift knew how often those miracles actually happened. He’d spoken about it at length with Ratchet, about the blame and guilt he carried. Drift had done his best to dismantle it as much as Ratchet would allow. It’d started as a way to repent-- a “Knight thing” as he so eloquently explained when Ratchet grumpily asked. Helping one he’d brought much harm to. It had grown from there into a friendship that surprised the both of them-- and allowed Drift to guess just what Ratchet had realized today. 

Drift cut right to the chase. ::You’re not able to fix it.:: 

Ratchet shook his head. ::No. What they did... we learn as medics and professionals not to cross wires like this for a reason. There is no reversing that coding. It’s tied too deeply within him. Even if we were to restore him from a pre-code backup it would still be there. It’s tied to his very spark.::

::What can we do for him then? This,:: Drift gestured in a circle, indicating both Ratchet and himself, ::Isn’t enough. It’s better, but it's not enough.::

Better being highly objective. Ambulon was no longer in constant, chronic pain. 

He was, however, crashing if left by himself for too long. Which could be fatal, if yesterday’s crash was any indication. 

Ratchet sighed quietly, the air hissing out his vents. ::I put him in this position,:: he admitted, staring down at the sleeping medical warden. ::He wasn’t okay before, but he was surviving. He won’t be now if we leave him alone for too long. I don’t know if he’ll ever recover.:: Ratchet looked tired but determined. Drift kept his face neutral, familiar enough with the CMO to know he wasn’t done talking. 

The old mech didn’t disappoint. ::I pushed him. He warned me not to, and I did it anyway. His condition is on me-- and it’s on me that I fix it.:: Ratchet looked at Drift, determination in his optics.  ::Any way I can.:: 

::You’re going to accept being his gestalt mate,:: Drift guessed. He caught Ratchet’s wince, no  doubt at having been caught. “You can’t do that by yourself.” 

“Of course I can.” Ratchet shot back. “The kid’s my responsibility. As a member of the medical staff, and as someone I treated. I put him in this position, so I’ll get him out. It should at least even him out enough to keep from having spark failure.”

“Let me rephrase:  _ I’ll  _ do it,” Drift said, sitting up abruptly. “The coding’s attached to me now too, isn’t it? I would be the better option-- I’m an ex-con and you’re too important to be messing around with this stuff.” Ratchet knew that he couldn’t be risked. 

Drift knew he knew it. 

The speedster, on the other hand, was disposable. There were mechs who openly hated him on this ship. If anything were to go wrong, not many would mourn his passing,but more importantly it wouldn’t affect the outcome of this mission or any other. It would not affect other mechs’ lives. Not like losing Ratchet would. 

He was the better option. 

“I will bond to his coding.” He said it with a tone of finality. “Not you. We can’t lose you Ratch. You know that.” 

_ “No!”  _

Drift jerked, startled. He hadn’t realized their conversation had gone off comms until Ambulon spoke. The junior medics optics were wider than saucers, almost white in worry-- Drift was amazed he’d stayed mostly in place, still draped over Drift. 

“No,” Ambulon repeated and Drift moved over, letting the smaller bot come up. “Neither of you are going anywhere near my coding.” He was starting to shake, helm flicking between the two larger mechs. 

Ratchet went quiet and so did Drift, knowing the CMO would be better to lead this conversation. 

“Ambulon.” Ratchet started, but the medical warden didn’t let him, instead scrambling to detach himself from Drift. The latter didn’t fight, just let Ambulon do what made him most comfortable.

Which, apparently, was getting to his pedes. “I said no,” he muttered, voice tinged with crackling static. “That is not an option. That has never been an option, for  _ either  _ of you.” His vents were starting to come in short burst. Drift shot a worried look at Ratchet, but the older mech wasn’t backing down. 

“Kid,” Ratchet tried again, speaking softly. “This might be your only option. We might find a cure later on-- or at least something that helps-- but for now? I haven’t found anything that will help you. And I don’t think you need me to tell you you’re getting worse.” There were a lot of implications there. Ambulon didn’t like any of them. 

“No,” He repeated instead. “We look into other options or we do nothing at all.” He edged backwards, towards the door. Ratchet didn’t try to stop him, not with his plating rattling like it was. He had pushed Ambulon too far once-- he wasn’t about to do it again. 

“We’re never going to bring this up again. Any kind of gestalt bonding is off the table.” Ambulon finally reached the hab door, pinging it to open. “Permanently.” He tried for a tone of finality, missing it entirely. The door slid aside, the junior medic’s generally haggard appearance exaggerated once the brighter hall lights hit him. Scratched and peeling paint was made visible, torn away by anxious fidgeting, worse than Ratchet had ever seen it. Scuff marks and grit that the medical warden hadn’t bothered to clean, topped by optics paled dramatically from their usual color. 

The effect wasn’t lost on him or Drift-- Ratchet heard the TIC suck in a vent. Not getting a rebuttal from either of them, Ambulon decided the was conversation over and disappeared into the hall, door closing behind him. 

The noise went with him. 

xXx

 

Crashing noises echoed through the medbay, driving First Aid into a near-frantic sprint to the front doors to see who had almost killed themselves now. 

He slowed when he realized the banging was moving throughout the med-center and frowned when he further realized it was coming from Ambulon and not caused by an injured crew member.

First Aid watched him as he slammed cabinets open and closed, pulling and nearly throwing materials from them onto the countertops. The mechs plating was shaking so hard it rattled, his field drawn tight. Finally seeming to have gathered what he wanted Ambulon spun on a heel, marched to a spot in the corner, dropped to his knees, and started scrubbing.

_ ‘Alright then,’  _ First Aid thought, eying him. He knew the ex-con wasn’t supposed to be in here-- was supposed to be on medical leave-- but was wise enough to leave it alone. 

He and Ambulon didn’t quite get along, but the time they’d spent in forced proximity on Delphi had caused them to learn a lot about one another. He knew Ambulon better than perhaps almost any other bot he’d served with-- if simply for their mutual distaste of Pharma. It didn’t take a genius to see how upset Ambulon currently was, but ‘Aid was one of the few who had a working knowledge of how to approach the situation, how to best get Ambulon to calm down without hurting himself. 

They may not necessarily be  _ friends _ , but they cared for each other. Had a connection forged by time, boredom, stressful jobs, and understanding. 

No matter what Ambulon was upset by, this was one of the safest places for him to be. So long as he didn’t strain himself too much, he could do whatever he wanted. 

Which allowed ‘Aid an excuse to keep a close optic on him anyway. It eased something inside him just a little, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

So he let Ambulon scrub his feelings out. Which is exactly what the ex-con did, with great vigor and a string of muttered cursing that would have made their CMO proud.

If some of it was directed at said CMO, well, First Aid was too busy to hear it. 

 

xXx

Tension was thick in the room, Drift giving it a moment to settle before attempting to break it. 

“That went well,” he started, still staring at the door. Ambulon’s appearance haunted him-- he hadn’t looked nearly that bad in the dimmer lights. “When he comes back I’m wrangling him into the showers,” he continued, trying for a lighter tone. If Sunstreaker saw that he would throw a fit. Primus, if any mech with a functioning processor saw it they’d throw one too-- self care that poor was a glaring sign of a  massive internal problem-- The likes of which he hadn’t seen since living in the Dead End. 

Ratchet didn’t reply, just vented another sigh before finally moving. He swiped at the speedster’s legs, making a space so he could sit down. Drift let him, shifting as Ratchet dropped down next to him in one continuous motion-- moving back as the CMO settled down. 

Drift had problems touching people, but he knew when it was needed. Touch of all kinds was important to their species. Physical touches, field touches, even spark to spark contact. It didn’t just strengthen the social bonds they all so desperately needed, it kept them centered. Kept the charges in their bodies running at a safe capacity. He trusted Ratchet, more so than he’d trusted anyone in nearly a thousand years. More than Wing, though it pained Drift to think of that-- how he’d had more time with Ratchet than he’d gotten with the flyer.

It was sometimes hard to imagine what would have happened if Wing had lived. How his life would have turned out. If he’d still be discontent-- except he knew the answer, there.

Had become even more certain of it he’d met Rodimus, and then Ratchet. 

Drift had spent his life floating from mech to mech, falling in love with the ideas they presented. He let himself be manipulated, contorted himself to their ideals. Rung no doubt would have a number of explanations to offer as to why, but Drift already knew the answers. He had an addictive personality, an emotional dependency on mechs that  appeared to accept him, a fear of abandonment and the kind of passionate, unchecked emotions that allowed him to throw 100% of himself into whatever he decided to do. The combination had allowed him to become one of the deadliest  Decepticons on the battlefield, and later to give up on all that and become the Knight Wing thought he saw in him. 

He’d never really dealt with that, at least, not in a healthy way. Hadn’t bothered to try and change until he encountered the Wreckers, and the emotional mess that was Rodimus. The latter had never tried to change him, had accepted him at face value. He understood more than anyone else the things Drift carried with him. It kicked off the oddest self journey Drift had ever embarked on (topping even some of Wing’s weirder bits of “training”) but at the end of it he’d come to terms with the fact that he needed to stop living for others. Stop trying to fit into lives that weren’t his-- into roles that weren’t his. 

Drift didn’t know exactly what his role was-- still didn’t-- but he was figuring it out. Slowly, and with mechs who _ cared. _

Odd thing was, he returned the feelings. Odder still that it’d been on his processor since Ratchet had woken him up that morning-- how Drift connected to people. He’d never seen it at the time, but looking back there had been others in his life who had cared in ways similar to Ratchet and Rodimus. Others who had offered quiet bits of friendship and acceptance. Drift hadn’t recognized it-- not as Deadlock, certainly not after Gasket’s death. 

But it had been there. Was still there, in some cases. 

One particular case, specifically. 

Maybe it wasn’t so odd after all, these thoughts. Wing had always told him he could find all the answer he desired if he just asked himself the right questions. 

Those questions danced  about his helm, and finally, he gave voice to some of them. “You’re really suggesting we let the coding bond us to him, then?” he asked. He was prepared to do this. Prepared to let Ambulon’s fragged coding bond them together, prepared to do it in place of Ratchet-- but Drift wasn’t a fool. He’d seek Ratchet’s knowledge on the matter first,  consider all aspects. It wouldn’t be fair to him or Ambulon to do anything less. 

“Not you,” Ratchet corrected, tiredly. “Just me. And yes.” He leaned back, rubbing at his optics with his fingers. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I believed for a second there was another option.” 

Drift had figured that, but wanted to be sure. He gave his own soft sigh, preparing for the next battle-- the one he’d have to win against Ratchet.

He wouldn’t let him do this-- at the very least not alone. Either Drift would do it, or they would do it together, but he would be right there every step of the way. 

Even if he had to win an argument with the Hatchet to do it. 

“Beyond the risk of messing you up,” Drift said gently, “Ambulon’s coding recognized some of my latent Decepticon codes.” Or rather, the coding had recognized coding with similar marks as it had. It was not “Decepticon coding” so much as it was coding created by the same group, installed in similar ways. But Ratchet knew what he meant. “It’s likely it will integrate easier with me than you. I’m the best option, Ratch.” 

He was prepared for an argument-- a long one, knowing the medic-b- ut Ratchet didn’t take that route.

“You realize you’d be stuck with him then? As a gestalt? Forever? You realise that, while I have a solid understanding of what that coding can and would do, that’s much different from actually living it?” Ratchet was still leaned back, plating relaxed-- all good signs. He got animated when he was fired up. Drift knew his best bet at “winning” this was to keep him calm. 

“You and I might not feel anything--- I doubt the coding will do much to us,” Ratchet continued. “We don’t have the mods he does. But it  _ will _ heavily affect  _ him _ . We won’t be able to make a major decision, like changing factions...” Drift glanced away at that, understanding that Ratchet was emphasizing not the actual act of defection, but rather Drift’s history of bouncing from group to group. “...or otherwise abandon him without causing serious harm. No matter what we do, he will have to be with us. I’m not saying you aren’t a good fit for him Drift-- or even the better one. But no matter where Ambulon goes he’d have a place with me. He’s a fellow medic-- one I work well with.” 

A strong argument, but Drift had a few of his own. Ratchet wasn’t the only one capable of changing tactics. 

“I knew him from before, you know,” Drift said, leaning back and looking at the ceiling. Ratchet knew that he meant the Decepticons. “He was a good medic. Obviously cared for his patients, his job. He never spoke out about the things he disagreed with, but at the same time everyone  _ knew  _ what he didn’t approve of. He was the kind of medic you wanted. Protective over his patients, didn’t put up with bullshit, hated throwing a life away. He’d fix even the most volatile of the ‘Cons, the ones that scared the others too much.” Drift let himself think back, to his time as Deadlock and the encounters he’d had with the other ex-con. “I’m not sure he’s aware of it, but he had quite the following, for that.”

Ratchet quirked a brow plate. “Following?” He asked. 

Drift had no problem clarifying. “Mechs who’d protect him. Because without him, they wouldn’t get the treatment they needed.” It wasn’t as simple as that-- Ambulon wasn’t a threat. Unlike other ‘Cons, he didn’t make himself out to be one either. He held very strictly to the  _ old  _ ways, the  _ old  _ reasons. The farther the Decepticons got away from that, the farther they strayed from (what Thundercracker had painfully reminded Drift was often considered) the “true” Decepticon way, the more the mechs who had chosen the ‘con badge circled around Ambulon. For those who didn’t care about such things, he couldn’t hurt their reputation-- would uphold them as best he could without personally cowering to them. 

He’d been one to care. To offer those quiet, true friendships. 

To offer them to Deadlock, who’d been more violent than your average Decepticon. 

“There was more than a few. Some he’d be shocked to know got very defensive over their medic.” Drift lowered his helm, to look at Ratchet. “I was one of those mechs.” 

The admission was another piece to the puzzle that was Drift-- it was freely offered to Ratchet, as had been all the others. The medic took it, looked it over in his head as he watched the speedster for a moment. 

Looked at what that kind of attachment meant for Deadlock, and what it would mean for the now reformed Drift. 

“If I can do this for him, I will,” Drift continued, mindless of Ratchet’s examination. “The gestalt coding won’t fritz out anymore once he’s bonded to others, you said so yourself.”

“Won’t isn’t the word I used-” Ratchet protested, but Drift wasn’t done. 

“It doesn’t affect other relationships. It would be like an Amica bond.” Even if that was one he might not be able to physically feel. An Amica bond was do-able. Many ‘Cons laughed at such a thing, but Drift hadn’t. Gasket had been his Amica, and he knew how much of a powerful thing it could be, what it could mean.

He was Amicas with Rodimus now. There was possessiveness there, as well as a willingness to take falls for each other. To protect each other. Even if it meant injuring yourself. Drift understood this would be different, but it would be similar too. 

Ratchet tried to clarify anyway. “Not exactly, that’s just the closest thing we have-”

“Ratchet,” he interrupted again, fondly. “I’ll do it. I understand the risks, and I understand what I am undertaking. It’s a life-changing thing, no matter how much the coding actually affects me. We are  _ both  _ defectors. Believe it or not, his bounty is just as high as mine. We were down medics when he left, and he was a part of a gestalt programming. They spent a lot of money and resources on him. If you bond to him, you’ll significantly raise your own bounty.” Something they both knew still existed, war over or not. 

“You know that for fact?” Ratchet challenged. 

“I do. So let me do it.” Drift was trying his best to be earnest. Trying to get this through his friend’s head. He  _ was _ the better option of the two of them. 

But things were never that easy with Ratchet. The medic shook his head, denying Drift’s attempts. 

“He’s mine,” Ratchet said, looking at him. “I’ll take responsibility for him. I took him under my wing, I’ve been continuing his training, and I’m the one who pushed him into crashing.” Which, Drift realized  was the real problem.

It wasn’t that Drift was unprepared-- it was that Ratchet felt guilty. Guilty for pushing Ambulon to crash. Guilty for how Pharma had treated the defector. Guilty for all the lives he’d lost on his table and in the battlefield. He couldn’t fix Ambulon’s coding, but he could save him-- by sacrificing himself. Something he had always done-- through sacrificing his time, his own energon, bits of himself. Something he could now do in a bigger way. 

No argument Drift gave would stand against that. 

“I’ll bond to him,” Ratchet said, and Drift saw the stubborn streak the medic was so known for flash in his optics. It occurred to Drift that this wasn’t a battle he would win head on.  

He accepted that. 

Ratchet was going to bond to Ambulon to save him, come hell or high water. That was fine. But Drift wasn’t going to let him do it alone. Drift wasn’t going to let him turn it into a sacrifice-- he was going to make it into something the three of them could properly live with, without a fragload of guilt. 

“I think we’ve both established we are going to take responsibility for him,” Drift said slowly, thinking over a good way to say it before giving up and just blurting it out: “So why don’t we  _ both  _ do it?” 

Ratchet blinked at that, clearly thrown at the deviation from the fight he was expecting. 

Drift rewarded his confused look with a smile.  _ Compromises _ . Wing had talked about them a lot, back in New Crystal City. Drift had always thought a compromise was two steps below submitting fully, but he saw the wisdom in it now. You could use it to get what you wanted by making it appear that you had conceded something.

Not exactly the takeaway Wing had been aiming for, but then again Drift’s interpretation of his lessons had always been a touch off. 

Now he just had to hammer it home. 

“We both have claims to him. Neither of us are going to feel alright unless we interfere-- and we have to, to save his life.” Ratchet wouldn’t do it if Ambulon refused. Oh, he’d try and talk Ambulon out of it right up until the ex-con de-activated-- but he’d let the deactivation happen, if that was what Ambulon truly wanted, in the end. Drift wasn’t so sure he’d take the same stance. But they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. “And it would make the bond that much more stable, having the both of us rather than just one. You and I on our own don’t have the best schedules to insure Ambulon gets what he needs out of bonding in the first place.” 

“It would,” Ratchet conceded, and Drift internally gave himself a point. “But that opens up a different set of problems.” He pinned the TIC with a stare. “The least of which is-- are you capable of being in a gestalt with me?” 

It was a loaded question-- and something of a trap, if Drift bothered to take the bait. Ratchet had a terrible reputation, and not just on the Decepticon side of things. He was feared internally for his biting temper, steady aim, and sarcasm so thick mechs physically recoiled from it. Externally he was feared for exactly the same reasons-- and because of his kill count. 

Not a lot of mechs were willing to get between the Hatchet and his intended patient. On the battlefield or off it.

More than that it, spoke of the weird  _ things  _ between them-- their odd friendship, their regrets, Ratchet’s alcoholism and Drift’s spirituality-- things that weren’t compatible.

Leave it to Ratchet to forget all the things between them that  _ were _ . 

“Honestly?” Drift said, letting his field edge out so his words could be felt, not just heard, “I’d enjoy being in a gestalt with you.” Could think of few others he would even tolerate being in this position with, in fact. He knew Ratchet felt something of that in Drift’s field because the medic stiffened, his optics searching Drift’s for a moment.

Whatever he was looking for, he found. 

Ratchet snorted, breaking the gaze. “Brat,” he said, but his field was affectionate. 

Drift just smiled.

“So it’s settled then?” he asked, when no further protest came forth. “We’re doing this together?” 

“No, it’s  _ not  _ settled.” Ratchet grumbled, but it was all a front. “But I’ll  _ consider  _ it. For the kid.” 

“For Ambulon,” Drift agreed. 

They stayed where they were, just enjoying each other's presence, the rare quiet moment. Ratchet would never admit it, but Drift was one of the few mechs with whom he could see himself not only surviving a situation like this one, but thriving in it. Drift was one of the few mechs he could tolerate being around for days on end in close quarters. 

He hadn’t spent as much time around Ambulon as he had Drift, but Ratchet knew himself. He worked well with the quieter mech, who was one of the few mechs he’d encountered in the entire war who understood Ratchet’s personality-- and his moods-- almost instantly.

Perhaps the latter skill was picked in his time with  the Decepticons, but then Ratchet supposed it said something about himself that two of the people he felt most comfortable around were both ex-Cons.

A thought for another day.  

The silence was broken by a comm-- this time, Ratchet’s.

“I need to go meet with Rung,” he told Drift, not at all happy about it. He knew Rung would want to discuss the situation with Whirl, and jumping from one fire to another wasn’t on Ratchet’s agenda today.

Or any day, for that matter-- and yet, it seemed to be all he did. 

Drift hummed in acknowledgement, but didn’t move right away. Instead he let his field linger in support, giving Ratchet what he couldn’t say with words. Ratchet allowed himself a small smile in Drift’s direction for it. 

He had a feeling he was going to need it. 

xXx

This was the second time this week Whirl had woken up somewhere without remembering how he got there and it was fricken’ Wednesday. Or at least, the human calendar he kept for shits and giggles said it was Wednesday. 

“Feeling better?” A smooth, dark voice asked and frag it all, he was in Cyclonus and Tailgate’s habsuite. 

“No,” he said moodily, feeling like a brat and intending to act like one.

He was entitled after all, he was going to die soon. From his shitty medical condition or of embarrassment he wasn’t sure, but it was going to be one of the two. 

“Would you like me to give you some advice?” Cyclonus said, in that “I’m going to give it to you anyway” voice. The fragger. 

“Oh please God no,” Whirl moaned from the floor. 

“Wait, hold on,” Tailgate said, and if his processor didn’t hurt as much as it did, Whirl would’ve cheered. 

Bless Tailgate. He was going to take back every negative thought he ever had about the pipsqueak, including but not limited to calling him pipsqueak. 

“I think he needs to hear it from me,” Tailgate continued. 

Nevermind. He was gonna be pipsqueak  _ for life _ . Whirl groaned again, thunking his head against the floor. The third time he did so he was surprised to find the nice, jarring pain had disappeared, his head caught by stubby fingers.

“Stop that! You’re gonna hurt yourself,” Tailgate chided. He folded gracefully downward, kneeling so he could hold Whirl’s head while seated. 

“That’s the point,” Whirl protested, but let Tailgate hold him. If the pipsqueak wanted to risk losing a finger to Whirl’s non-existent mouth that he’d totally bite down with, he’d let him chance it. 

“Whirl, you’re a better person than you think you are,” Tailgate began, which startled Whirl for a number of reasons, the primary one being  _ ‘Holy shit! He knows my name!’  _

“And I think you use a lot of the fighting and the jokes so that people can’t see what you really feel. Which is okay. Well, it’s not  _ okay _ ... but like, it’s you. And I know you have your reasons.”

“You do?” Whirl joked, trying to make this not Super Serious. ‘Cause come on, who jumped right into these kinds of conversations right after just waking up? What had he done to deserve this?

Okay, dumb question, it was a lot of things. But come on, he was dying! Couldn’t a mech catch a break? 

Tailgate giggled. “Of course! You and Cyclonus are alike like that.”

“Please don’t ever say that again.”  _ Him and Cyclonus!? Alike!? The horror!  _

“But I think,” and Whirl tried to hide his groan, he really did, “what you need to do is to just be straightforward with Rung. I don’t think you’re going to get anywhere unless you are.” Tailgate lightly petted his head, another thing a very, very small amount of people could get away with. (A number he could count with one claw, in fact.) “And if it goes badly you can come back here, and Cyclonus and I will do our best to help you ‘cause you’re our friend.” 

“You will!?”

“Yeah!” 

“Aw, ‘Gate,” Whirl said with a fake sniffle, “you better stop it before you make me cry.” 

Tailgate giggled again, his whole body vibrating. Whirl lay there, letting him pet him for a while longer. Longer than he should have-- longer than he ever had, in fact.

But he was indulging. 

Wasn’t like he was gonna have much more time to make these kinda memories. Memories he wanted to relive, instead of actively hate himself for. 

Finally the minibot let his helm go, standing and shaking out his limbs. “Okay,” he announced to the room, “Swerve just commed me, the treats I got for us are ready. I’m gonna go get them, you guys wait for me here!” Then he shot what had to be the least subtle, most pointed look to have ever been directed at another mech in Cyclonus’ direction. Whirl’s head was still slumped on the floor where Tailgate had left it and  _ he _ had caught that look, that’s how obvious it was.

Cyclonus didn’t react, but then he didn’t have to. His “roommate’s” message was loud and clear to both bots in the room-- he wanted Cyclonus to talk to Whirl, and he was leaving so the purple bot could do it alone. 

Well that took care of the question of who was in charge of their relationship. Not that he’d ever really questioned it. Cute and sassy  _ always _ trumped moody and emo. 

Whirl would allow it, puddle of mech he now was. Or at least, he’d allow it for as long as Tailgate took to realistically get treats before he started spamming the minibots’ comm. 

Someone had given him access to new human emjoi’s, and by Primus he was going to make use of them before he bit the big one. 

He just  _ really _ hoped it wasn’t another rant on consent. He could get through just about anything else, but not that one. Not right now. 

Cyclonus waited until the door was closed, and then a beat after, staring at Whirl before bowing his head slightly. “I owe you an apology,” he said, stiffly, and if that wasn’t enough to raise Whirl’s non-existent eyebrow, the field that held a weird amount of honesty and true (true!) remorse that brushed his own would’ve done it. 

“What for?” Whirl asked, rolling his head slowly in Cyclonus’ direction. He’d been dealing with an awful lot of weirdness the past few weeks and he really didn’t need Cyclonus to add on to it. 

Plus there was still that entire thing about Cyclonus  _ technically  _ starting it to deal with-- but Whirl wasn’t gonna blame him for that. Not really. His fault he had a meltdown in the brig. 

“I misunderstood our argument earlier,” Cyclonus explained and dammit this WAS gonna be about the consent argument! ...But it was going in a totally different direction than anticipated, so Whirl let his once-and-sometimes-still-enemy continue.

“It has been pointed out to me that I may have misunderstood, and in light of…” He trailed off, tilting a head to look at Whirl and the ‘Copter had a sudden flash of fear that the jet somehow  _ knew- _ “whatever it is you are facing, I felt the need to retract my statements. Tailgate may be young in mind, but his intuition is strong.” Quieter, he added; “You require support.”

“Fuck no I don’t!” Whirl said, automatically panicking. “And certainly not from you!” he added, but it was half-sparked. He remained on the floor, processor still scrambling to determine just where Cyclonus had gotten his insight from. No one had talked, right? No one? Sure the command structure aboard the Lost Light was shitty, but it's medics were top notch-- Rung and Ratchet both remained to be some of the few mechs in such positions he actually respected. Hell, they were some of the few mechs he trusted _at all,_ period. They wouldn’t do this to him. Had he given himself away somehow? Said something while hammered?

What had it been!? 

“Tailgate was-  _ is  _ right.” Cyclonus continued, to smart to take Whirl’s bait.  “What he does not understand however, is that there is more to this than what you’re telling us.” 

Whirl’s optic narrowed, mentally launching himself into defense mode. “And how do you figure that?” His engine added an underlying growl to his words. A threat and warning all in one. 

Cyclonus ignored it too. 

“Because as much as I want to disagree with him, you and I  _ are  _ alike. And because you are yourself, whatever you are hiding no doubt has some great effect on the outcome of the situation.” Cyclonus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Whirl had raised himself up on his elbows and was staring, horrified, in Cyclonus’ direction. 

The direct optic contact did not help any. 

“He has compared us on multiple occasions, and it is that comparison that has allowed me to make one of my own... It is my belief that our earlier arguments  were coming from the same place-- but we were having different conversations.” 

Cyclonus’ field reached out again, trying to touch Whirl’s and- Nope, no, he was not doing this! He was derailing this conversation immediately- but the purple people eater was still fragging talking and Whirl seemed to have lost control of his vocalizer. 

“I was not listening to you. I am sorry for that. I am sorry for how I’ve treated you, and I am sorry for believing what I did. It was an assumption in line with the behavior I  _ thought  _ I saw in you, rather than what was actually there... Further.. the place I was arguing from was that of personal experience-- an experience I am starting to think we may share.” 

“The only experience we share is wanting to frag small bots!” Whirl blurted out, vocalizer finally working and of course, saying something he immediately regretted. “And by we I mean  _ you _ ! You wanting to frag a small bot! Tailgate! You want to frag Tailgate, let’s talk about that, have you guys done it yet? Are you going to court him or are you going to wait for him to do it? Are you fragging first or waiting ‘till after the courtship!?” He was back-pedaling quite obviously, but Cyclonus had made it perfectly clear that the topic of him interfacing with or courting Tailgate was Off Limits, capital letters and all (and Whirl had the text logs to prove it), and it had never failed to distract him. It was cheap and dirty, but that’d never stopped Whirl before.

Standards were for Optimus Prime and mechs who hadn’t been destroyed by the so-called kindness of others.

To his complete and utter horror, Cyclonus ignored  _ all  _ of that and  _ kept talking _ . 

It was like Whirl was in a M. Night Shyamalan movie, post ‘ _ Signs _ ’-- all shitty plots and terrible twists and ruining amazing children's cartoons. 

“So I will offer you this-- a piece of advice that was once given to me. There will be multiple points you will believe you cannot progress from. Multiple times you will be set back, by things small and large.” Cyclonus was still staring at him, trying to do the “piercing optics” thing and weirdly succeeding at it. “Times you believe you will never heal, and never allow yourself the chance to be injured again. It is worth it-- to ourselves and to others-- to try again. To fix what is wrong within ourselves and those in our lives we care for. Nothing is ever permanent. Arguments, wounds, love and hate-- all must be maintained to be constantly given. They remain by our choice alone.” Whirl froze at that, finally listening rather than freaking out, his own optic cycling slightly wider. 

“Do what you must to make peace with yourself. In the end, that is who we have to live with: our selves, and our memories. There are things you will regret never doing, and I urge you to not let this matter be one. You have a connection to Rung. Do not let yourself get in the way of it.” 

Eloquent words, for an old warrior. 

Suspiciously o n topic for someone who was pointedly kept out of the dark of Whirl’s full problem too, but he’d think on that later.    


After they were done having a moment.

There was something that sprang to Whirl’s processor first, anyway, something in Cyclonus’ field that he was trying so hard to avoid. There was something unspoken here, something Cyclonus was trying to convey, and as Whirl tentatively let his field tap the jet’s he reviewed the advice the older mech was attempting to give him. 

Cyclonus, as much as Whirl would never admit it, was something of a friend. Their rivalry had shifted into... whatever this was and the more Whirl got to know him, the more he really, really didn’t want to admit Tailgate was right.

Particularly in this case.

The thing was, they understood each other. Always had. Cyclonus was admitting to seeing more of Whirl’s situation than Whirl was comfortable with. He was giving something of himself in return-- a reason why he saw what he did, why he recognized it. Just as he recognized that Cyclonus was not open to discussing it. 

Things clicked into place, like the cogs in the clocks he used to dote on. Whirl was sharp, sharper than most gave him credit for, and clever when it counted. He could put two and two together-- had needed to to save his own life more than once. 

Cyclonus hadn’t heard of his problems, but he had made an educated guess-- and Whirl’s intuition was telling him that education had been gained the hard way. 

Abuse, no matter how it was given, shaped you in a way that made it easy to identify others who had endured its touch. Age and experience could hide those markers, but they never truly went away-- just allowed you to hide it to those who weren’t close enough to see. 

Whirl had fought all his life not to get close to others-- and yet here he was. Finally close enough to be seen-- and given the chance to observe in return. 

“No matter what happens, you are always welcome here, with us,” Cyclonus finished, and Whirl wondered if Tailgate had made him say that bit. 

Probably.

Normally he’d have a snappy comment, maybe even a teasing one. He’d have been up and facing Cyclonus rather than still on the floor, rotor blades spinning madly instead of tapping out an anxious rhythm.  

Normally, he’d have already left.

He hadn’t, though.

People long had tried to be nice to him before they got tired of his antics. Tried to use grandiose speeches to get through to him-tried to use their own life experiences as if that excused his. This moment was disturbingly reminiscent of them,  only Whirl didn’t detect the pity, the forced and false connection here. What was being offered was something real, painful in its honesty. 

Whirl didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to spoil it.

So he didn’t. He stayed, not knowing what to say.

He’d never been good at this, at talking about his feelings. Pit, that was the entire reason he was in Cyclonus and Tailgate’s hab to begin with! So he said nothing for a while. Let his silence speak for him. Cyclonus’ field gently tapped his-- after a hesitant moment, Whirl tapped back. It wasn’t a big thing. They weren’t tangling their fields together, like those idiots in the movies Rewind liked to play. They weren’t gonna cry and hug it out.

It was a big step though. An admittance of weakness. Whirl didn’t have to think about it to know that it was a big thing for both of them. 

After a long, awkward moment Whirl let his elbows drop, his upper body falling back to the floor with a dull ‘thud!’

“Better comm ‘Gate,” he said, “see if he fell into one of the kegs again. He’s takin’ too long just to get a few damn treats.” He tried to keep it light, tried to keep it sounding like Cyclonus hadn’t just gave Whirl life advice and confessed to his own trauma in the same vent. His attempt failed-- vocalizer scratchy to even his audios. His intake bobbed, he coughed to clear it. 

Cyclonus eyed him for a moment, but didn’t force it. The air between them lit with that particular buzzing that indicated a comm conversation, and mere clicks later the habsuite door slid open, revealing one happy minibot carrying a massive tray of treats.

“Look guys, Swerve made extra!” he said, visor sparkling with delight, still pretending he hadn’t orchestrated their conversation. He bounded in, clearly (and rightfully, damn him) thinking they had resolved their current issues. “I even- oh, oops!” he yelped, as he bounded a little too hard and some of the treats fell from his arms.  

“No!” Whirl cried, rolling over and diving dramatically for the cube, “Save the sweet-sticks!” Tailgate laughed at him as he caught them, landing hard on his cockpit. He could feel Cyclonus heave a sigh behind him, vents expelling heat into the small space, and tried not to let himself think too hard on how much he actually appreciated their stupid talk.

Or how grateful he was to the two of them, for knowing how to handle him even when he himself didn’t seem capable of it. They likely wouldn’t ever understand him-- his fight with Cyclonus had proven that-- but they did better than most everyone else, and whether Whirl admitted to it or not, it counted for something.

  
Of all the mechs on the ship, the two of them were some of the few he’d regret not spending more time with. 


End file.
